


Just Us

by Kari_Kurofai



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Green Lantern - All Media Types, Justice League - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types, The Flash - All Media Types, Wonder Woman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bruce Wayne Has Issues, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2019-11-13 02:19:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 79,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18022952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kari_Kurofai/pseuds/Kari_Kurofai
Summary: Iustita University was not Bruce Wayne's first choice of school. TCU was not his first choice of dormitory. In fact, none of this was his choice at all. At twenty-one he'd been expecting to inherit a company, not trip over a loophole in his parents' will and have to put up withthis.Or how Bruce Wayne learns how to be a little less emotionally constipated, make some friends, and save the world.





	1. Soldier, Poet, King

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, yes, hi sorry to return from an over three year absence to bring you this hot garbage but voila, it's what you get. Flimsy explanations for the rumors of my death will be at the end of the chapter for anyone who cares. But now, a short note on the nature of this fic.
> 
> Confession: I've always been more fond of DC than Marvel. Even if the movies sucked and the comics couldn't keep the characters' developments and personalities straight, with DC I could always fall back on a plethora of fantastic animated material whenever I was unhappy with the other crap it was spitting out. So this fic is born of that more so than any other iteration of these characters. Specifically, I chose the team from the _Justice League: War_ movie because it's my favorite team formation, and I love 90% of that movie to bits (the other 10% is the Clark/Diana scenes and their personalities. Fuck that shit)
> 
> There's also one very specific scene of the comics that will be referenced repeatedly, and I'll reveal it after the foreshadowing leads into actual plot for that bit, but it's already hinted at a few times in this chapter for those with a keen eye.
> 
> Also if someone knows Latin and sees that the Latin in this is fucked, please know I used google translate and let me know how to fix it :<

There was a saying, Bruce thought as he rolled an old, worn out baseball between his hands, that the road to hell was paved with good intentions. In his opinion, it wasn’t just one those old cliche sayings muttered by old wives and struggling writers, but the absolute truth. He’d seen it his whole life. Politicians with grand ideas that slipped slowly into corruption, cities built to prosper falling into shadow, fathers who spoke reassurances when staring down the barrel of a gun. At twenty-one years old, over half of the paths his life had taken seemed to have been paved with good intentions, and as he gazed out the window of the car at the passing scenery, this seemed to just be the latest in an ever growing list. His fingers caught on the seams of the baseball, and he glanced down to rub a thumb over where the professionally stitched red lines faded into thinner, closer wound blue thread where the white hide had been mended back together at some point. Perhaps it was symbolic, he thought bitterly, that his most worried possession be something broken.

In the driver seat, Alfred prattled on, the descriptions of their destination all but white noise as Bruce considered the situation he’d managed to land himself in. It was his own folly, he admitted to himself reluctantly, that he hadn’t thought to count on how precisely Alfred was going to follow his parents’ will. In an age of a world of knowledge that could be held in the palm of a hand, he hadn’t thought much of the document’s wording, and especially had not considered the archaicness of it. With two degrees under his belt already, Bruce had been smug about announcing his plans to his butler about taking over the company that fall. He’d obtained his Business and Marketing degrees with record time and flawless grades. The fact that he’d done so through a mixture of online classes and internships had seemed to just be minor details in the fine print of his plans. 

So it was to his great shock when Alfred had pulled out one of his many copies of his parents’ will that he held as its executor, and pointed a finger at the passage that made Bruce’s stomach turn. In a rather short list of prerequisites for inheriting his parents’ companies and charities were the words that spelled out his doom. “Must _attend_ and graduate a four year college.”

When Bruce had protested, vehemently of course, Alfred had put on his most disappointed frown in the face of his arguments. “Cutting corners,” he’d called it, to Bruce’s chagrin. Even when anticipating to live a full life, the Waynes had been firm about what they expected out of their only child. Elegance, propriety, diligence, intelligence. 

And most importantly, a social life. 

It wasn't as though Bruce lacked one, per say. He had peers, fellow business elites both established and up-and-coming. He had classmates, teachers, tutors, and admirers, all people with whom he had curried favor. 

But that wasn't what they would have wanted, and knowing that just made the bitter sting of Alfred refusal to sign off on his fulfillment of the will that much sharper.

“We're here, Master Wayne.”

Carefully, Bruce bottled up the vaguely sick feeling that had pooled in his stomach and took a moment to run his fingers through his hair and sweep it back. First impressions were everything, even if they were to be made to a bunch of unruly young men and women buzzing between the end of childish dreams and the cusp of adulthood. Outside the window a cluster of tall dorm buildings sat nestled between shorter, wider classroom halls. In the distance he could see the equally cluttered northern campus against the backdrop of thunder clouds rolling in for one of the region's regular autumn storms. Altogether, it wasn't really much of an impressive university. He could have chosen anything, and though the prestige of Harvard and size of UCF had both been alluring, neither of them had stood out to him the same way Iustita University had. While places of notoriety rode hand in hand with lives of fortune, Bruce already had enough of both of those to last a lifetime. The pull of the anonymity that would come from a more mundane choice had been more than enough to catch his eye when he'd discovered Iustita's small, but friendly brochure among the stacks of other offers. 

“Per defectum, oriri. Gloria vincat,” he said to himself as he exited the car, his eyes catching the school’s motto engraved into the stone blocks of the walkway that lead from the parking lot to the student center. 

“In failure, rise. In glory, prevail,” Alfred intoned beside him, his hands behind his back. “They are certainly words to live by, Master Wayne. Though perhaps a bit melodramatic for a school.”

Bruce chewed thoughtfully on the inside of his lip, but didn't respond. If only because he was loathe to admit the motto had held equal, if not more sway over his decision than anything else had. Instead, he made his way to the back of the car to begin hauling out his suitcases. Once all four of them and his backpack with his baseball tucked safely inside had been arranged around him, he cast another look at the looming buildings that overshadowed them. A quick flip through his memory reminded him that Turre Custodum Usque was the tallest of the structures, its gray bricks decorated with solar panels on the upper floors sticking out like a sore thumb among the older buildings. 

“As this is my last chance to appeal to your better nature, I'd like to remind you that buying an apartment off campus is cheaper than forcing me to stay in a dorm,” Bruce said evenly.

“A sacrifice in funds your parents would have only been too happy to make, I assure you,” Alfred countered. His voice softened almost imperceptibly over his next words, “If only to secure you the brightest future possible.”

“Yeah,” Bruce said thickly, “I know.”

Four suitcases and a backpack were easily handled between the two of them, and Bruce was suddenly thankful he had never been much of a materialist as he watched other new and returning students struggle with pilfered hotel luggage dollies and shopping carts filled to the brim with all manner of knickknacks. Carefully, they weaved their way through the crowd towards the card table that had been set up in front of Turre Custodum Usque’s front entrance. A pair of flustered looking resident assistants were standing behind it, balancing their attention between a beat up looking laptop and a large lockbox that rattled ominously every time it was jostled. Bruce didn't understand why they even bothered with the table. 

As they approached, one of the RA's beamed at him despite his harried appearance. “Welcome to TCU! Freshman or returning student?”

At least TCU was less of a mouthful, Bruce thought distantly as he shuffled through his pockets for his university ID. “Freshman,” he admitted reluctantly and handed the card over. 

The RA clapped his hands together, almost dropping his laptop in the process. “Great! You get the whole spiel!” He glanced at the screen for a minute before rattling off a number Bruce didn't catch to his companion. “My buddy here will give you your room condition packet and key, the former of which I'd like you to return as soon as possible. Please follow the instructions on noting the condition of the room as it is upon arrival so that you won't get charged for any previous damage at the end of the year. Until then, I'll hang on to this,” he flashed Bruce his own ID card back at him, and Bruce barely restrained a scowl in the face of the RA's stupidly smug expression. “You also get one rule packet,” he handed this one over himself while his sidekick was still struggling to locate Bruce's key in the oversized lockbox. “Please read them carefully and sign the last page in order to get your meal plan activated.” He paused, frowning briefly down at the screen in front of him before he added, “Oh, and while you're up there can you remind your roommate that he needs to turn those in too? He should have brought them back over an hour ago.”

His key finally in one hand and a stack of mostly unnecessary and superficial paperwork in the other, Bruce lead the way into the building. He bypassed the lines for the elevators entirely after a quick glance at his key revealed he was the fifth floor out of fifteen. He was already pulling the heaviest of the suitcases along himself, so he didn't worry too much about Alfred's stamina as they made their way up the stairwell instead. Besides, the side-eye Alfred had cast the rowdy students lined up indicated he'd made the right decision in getting a little extra exercise, if only to save both their sanities. 

At first glance the fifth floor was nothing if not stereotypical of most college dorms. Boxes and frazzled parents lined the hallway, and Bruce plastered on his best business smile as he and Alfred shuffled past them, suitcases lifted off the cluttered carpet. The door to room 505 was already ajar when they reached it, nothing unusual for move in day save for the fact that no one stood outside it helping to carry belongings inside, and no noise came from the interior. If the place wasn't so crowded he would have been more wary, but as it was far more likely his roommate had just fucked off to go party already, he just jammed his foot into the gap between the door and the wall and eased it open a bit further. Only the most cursory glances was given to the room's layout before he started rolling his luggage inside. It was cramped, Bruce noticed with a twinge of discomfort. Two twin beds sat on the right and left sides from the door with a plain oak wood desk positioned at the far end of each them. A small, single window decorated the opposite wall, framed by two wardrobes with three drawers at the bottom and three bookshelves at the top. A glance to his left revealed another door almost flush against the side of the entrance, and he assumed it lead to the bathroom. 

“How cozy,” Alfred said in his usual monotone over his shoulder. 

“You mean claustrophobic,” Bruce corrected. 

Alfred tilted his chin in his direction, and Bruce recognized the almost imperceptible flash of mischief in his gaze before he spoke. “I prefer my glass half full, sir.”

With a roll of his eyes he made sure Alfred saw, Bruce made a move to toss his backpack onto the bed on the right and pulled up short as he realized it was already occupied. He hadn't seen the other man upon entering, and he could immediately see why. He was sound asleep with his back pressed against the tan wall and dressed in military fatigues that Bruce recognized as the newer OCP of the Air Force. With his patrol cap tilted down over his eyes and only a little bit of his dark brown hair sticking out from underneath, he was almost indistinguishable from the wall if viewed from the entryway. Bruce lifted an eyebrow in his direction before turning his back and setting his backpack on the bed to the left. The guy didn't move, and Bruce stood there a heartbeat just to make sure he could see the slow rise and fall of his chest before he directed his attention elsewhere. 

“Heavy sleeper for a soldier,” he remarked to Alfred as he went to check out the wardrobes. Audaciously, he pulled open the right hand one instead of his own. It might as well have been empty too with how little there was inside. Just a handful of t-shirts, a second set of fatigues, and two pairs of jeans. Closing it, Bruce tilted his attention to the bookshelves above where four well worn novels sat. He hummed an incomprehensible note and went to the right desk next. The drawers held a short stack of college ruled notebooks and a box of mechanical pencils, while the surface had a closed, worn out looking laptop with a sheaf of paper sticking out of it. 

Alfred didn't so much as glance his way when he snatched the stack of paper up, but Bruce didn't miss the little scolding “tsk,” he let out under his breath. “As if you didn't run a background check the second you found out his name,” he said with a smirk as he flipped through the packet. He could have done the same thing himself, but doing it the old fashioned way was much more interesting. Pulling out his own room condition papers he began to copy over all the notes his roommate had already made. Someone who had clearly brought, and maybe even only owned the bare minimum wouldn't have been lackadaisy about recording the status of the room. Not that Bruce cared much either way since he could pay for any damages with hardly more than a flick of his fingers.

He paused, pen hovering over the line for his signature on the list of dorm rules and his eyes fixed on the bare mattress of his roommate's bunk. “I assume I'm being put on an allowance while I'm here,” he said absently as he signed it with a flourish. “Probably just under the amount it would actually take to rent an apartment in the area and afford groceries.”

“Very astute of you, Master Wayne,” Alfred confirmed. He pulled out his phone and tapped at it for a moment before showing Bruce a number on the screen. 

Bruce’s eyebrows went up. “You know I could just get a job at Burger Fool to even that out enough for rent and food.”

“The day you work behind a fast food counter will be the day I eat my own cufflinks,” Alfred said bluntly. 

“Don't tempt me,” Bruce smirked, pleased when he was awarded a rare, barely there hint of a smile from the butler. “Anyways, I just needed to know my budget. There's a few things I'd like to get from the store before the end of the day.” He grabbed one of his roommate's notebooks from the desk and clicked his pen a few times as he began to consolidate what he wanted in his mind. Leaning against the windowsill, he scribbled down what he hoped was a manageable amount of items that fit within the constraints of his allowance. He knew that not having to do his own shopping as a kid had really skewed his idea of what normal prices were, and a town like this, a sleepy college suburb on the outskirts of a large city, probably only had a convenience store and the mandatory Walmart for selection. Still though, between his own school supplies and a stockpile of other items he thought of as he stared at the bare mattress, he managed to fill the page anyways. 

Chewing on the end of the pen, he almost didn't notice Alfred reading what he'd written over his shoulder until he spoke. “Ah,” the older man said, drawing out the single syllable. “I think,” he intoned slowly as he slipped the list out of Bruce's grasp, “I can make an exception for most of these items and take the funds from the main accounts.” He narrowed his eyes at the list briefly, “The Oreos, however, will definitely be charged to your allowance.” Bruce nodded and made to take the list back, but Alfred quickly moved it out of his immediate reach. “Why don't you go turn your paperwork in and I'll fetch these for you,” he said gently. “Perhaps afterward you can unpack and then give yourself a tour of the campus.”

Sourly, Bruce folded his arms over his chest. “Most people's butlers aren't so conniving.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow, “I hope you know most people don't have butlers,” he countered. 

Bruce had nothing to say to that, and instead moved to begin going through his suitcases, if only because doing things out of the order Alfred had said was the only retaliation he could think of.

It didn't take him long to unpack after Alfred left. His clothes were already folded or had hangers in them, and his books pre-alphabetized and lined in neat rows in the suitcase he'd brought them in. The only part that took him awhile was the same thing he assumed stumped most mortals, the mystery of which way the fitted sheet was supposed to go on the bed. 

He was just finishing smoothing it out across the mattress when he heard the telltale snuffle of someone jerking awake from a deep sleep. Reigning in his curiosity, Bruce continued his task as if he hadn't noticed the sound and moved to unfold the small pile of blankets he'd laid out at the edge of the bed. The mattress behind him shifted as its occupant sat up and yawned, and Bruce could feel eyes on his back. It was only after he heard the dull thunk of the patrol cap hitting the desk that he decided to grace the other young man with his attention. Or at least half of it, he thought as he cast his bleary eyed roommate an unreadable look over his shoulder.

Like with many moments in Bruce's life, his first goal was assessment. Now that his features weren't obscured by his hat, he could see the short cropped brown hair was starting to grow out into a sleep ruffled quiff in the front. The other man's equally brown eyes crinkled around the corners as he seemed to finally realize he was no longer alone in the room, and a frown briefly marred his otherwise decently handsome features.

“Are you . . .” he began, pausing to rub the heel of his hand over an eye and blinking a few times. “Are you seriously wearing a suit vest on move-in day?”

Bruce pursed his lips and let that sentence hang in the air for an uncomfortable minute before he finally turned fully around. “It's called a waistcoat, actually,” he said flatly. 

The brunette regarded him with a frown as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “Sure, whatever. What's a posh kid like you doing bunking up in TCU? Shouldn't you be in one of those high end Hogwarts looking dorms? Or your own apartment?”

“Maybe I just wanted to try living among the common folk for a change.” Or maybe Alfred had chosen his dorm for him, or something . . .

The other man lifted an eyebrow, but otherwise seemed to take the comment at face value. Unperturbed, Bruce returned to the task of making his bed and doing his damndest to appear as though it was something he did regularly. In fact, he wondered why he hadn’t thought to do it from time to time before now. The act of throwing the blankets into the air to let them fall on the mattress and be smoothed out was rather soothing, in the way all mundane things tended to be at least, and for awhile Bruce lost himself in the task despite the eyes he could still feel on his back. 

When he looked up again, the soldier was still watching him, though he was now doing so over the top of what Bruce quickly realized was one of his own books, seemingly pilfered silently from his side of the room without him having noticed. He caught Bruce’s eyes as he feigned turning a page, this time raising both of his eyebrows in what Bruce this time realized was a silent challenge. He was testing his boundaries.

Not one to be outdone by boldness, Bruce merely moved to sit on his own bed, hands behind him to support his weight as he flicked his gaze briefly to the cover of the book. “ _Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man_ seems a bit out of your depth, don’t you think?” 

“Nah,” his roommate intoned, “I’m like, a huge Joyce fan. Really. That other one of his, about the Civil War, that one is a real page turner.”

“ _Ulysses_ is a modernist retelling of the Odyssey,” Bruce deadpanned. “It has nothing to do with the Civil War.”

“But you’re not denying it’s a page turner,” the other shot back. “I mean, most of it was a real drag, but that last bit I was certainly speeding through it, what with trying to find the fucking period to just end the hell of being forced to read through twenty, punctuation-less pages.” Bruce blinked, his mouth parting in surprise, but the other man just continued to ramble. “This one though, at least I remember a little more about it other than how much it sucks. This is the really gay one, right? Where the main dude spends most of time mooning over his dude friend and then gets all jealous when he hooks up with a girl near the end?” He snapped the book closed then and tossed it casually across the room where Bruce caught it artfully and without thinking. “Still boring as tar though. I hope you’re not some sort of Lit Major.”

“I’m not,” Bruce said warily. “Why?”

His roommate shrugged, “No reason, it just seemed like a dull thing to be. Also useless.” He chuckled, “Not that I’m one to talk. I’m Gen Studies myself right now. What about you?”

“Mechanical Engineering and Forensic Science double major,” Bruce replied. He’d thought about it for a long time, what with the degrees he needed to run Wayne Enterprises already under his belt. If he was forced to suffer four more years of studying, and doing it on an actual campus no less, he might as well invest that time into something he was _actually_ interested in.

“Oof,” the other man whistled, “the bourgeois.”

Bruce scowled, “Excuse me?”

“High value, high expectations,” his roommate said flippantly. “That must suck. Don’t you have any hobbies?”

Bruce glanced at the bookshelf, “I read.”

“I saw that. You like a lot of that old school pretentious shit. Could be worse though,” he frowned, “You could be one of those assholes that thinks _Fight Club_ and _A Clockwork Orange_ are the epitome of literature. So I’ll take pretentious over insufferable. What else you got?” He leveled Bruce with an appraising look, his eyebrow quirking up again as his eyes traveled up the length of his arm. “You know, you’re pretty fit for someone who shows up to move-in day dressed like he’s being photographed for _People’s Magazine_.” He smirked, his expression suddenly gleeful. “I bet I could still kick your ass though.” 

Without thinking, Bruce laughed, a fake and humorless sound, “I'd like yo see you try.”

For a second, his roommate looked genuinely surprised, his eyebrows furrowing for a moment before he showed his teeth in an almost Cheshire like grin. “You know,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets as he strode towards the door. “I could have sworn you rich-bitch types were raised to exude politeness or whatever.” He glanced back over his shoulder, a roguish spark in his eyes. “But yet you never asked me my name.”

“You're right,” Bruce drawled with a roll of his eyes, “how terribly insufferable of me.” He still didn't voice the question, on principle of course. 

The soldier snorted, but somehow still seemed oddly pleased by the response. “I'm Hal by the way,” he said as he propped the heavy dormitory door open with his foot. “Hal Jordan.”

Bruce hesitated, teeth digging into the inside of his bottom lip for a heartbeat before he spoke. “Bruce Wayne,” he said, sounding stiff even to his own ears. He forced his eyes to meet Hal's as he said it, waiting for that inevitable widening of recognition. 

But all Hal said was, “Cool.” And motioned over his shoulder to the hall. “Gym is this way. Prepare to get your ass beat.” 

~~~***~~~

The Iustita campus gym was rather striking to say the least. Sporting four floors that included a pool, an indoor track, a rock climbing wall, an absurd amount of gymnastic equipment, and enough workout machines to put a 24 Hour Fitness to shame, Bruce had to admit that he was mildly impressed. The third floor especially suited his tastes, full of padded mats and a wall of mirrors that took up a third of the area. Perfect for sparring. Perfect, he thought as he stared up through the open middle of the building that allowed him to catch glimpses of the facilities available on the floor above, for pretending to be dead where he lay on his back waiting until Hal was stupid enough to try and approach him again.

He should have expected from the glint in Hal’s eyes that he had a little more experience than just standard combat training, but then again Bruce was starting to like the sensation of being pleasantly surprised. It had started out as expected, a tentative agreement to keep their taps light before Hal had lunged at him. He’d kept it clean at first, a tactic that Bruce now recognized was meant to lead him into a false sense of security while Bruce had easily parried his blows away with simple guards. But when he’d finally thrown a punch of his own, he’d been startled when his fist had met nothing but air, Hal having dropped down to a crouch to tackle Bruce into the mat and knock the wind out of him. And then it had just gone downhill from there. Bruce had only ever done long sparring matches with his own private instructors, tutors he strongly suspected had held back now that he was laying there on the mat, his eyes closing as he heard Hal start to approach as curiosity got the better of him. Like all good teachers, they had played by the rules and expected him to do the same, something that had been a constant frustration to him.

Hal though . . . Bruce cracked open an eye slightly to watch the brunette as he strode toward him, his steps light with a false sense of triumph. Hal fought dirty. His blows were quick and without true precision, but his stance was steady, his eyes cunning when he swiped with an echo of the desperation he must have learned such tactics from. Bruce closed his eyes again, listening, waiting, as Hal stopped a little too far away to be within proper striking distance. Smarter than he looked, too, Bruce decided. Well, two could play at that game.

He groaned, pulling his legs up from where he’d let them splay out until he could curl his knees up with the soles of his feet flattening on the mat. His hands reached over his head as he snapped his eyes open, taking in the expression of horror and realization that flickered across Hal’s face before he pushed off the mat into a vault that landed him right in Hal’s personal space. 

“Oooh, spooky” Hal practically giggled, a nervous reaction to being taken off guard Bruce decided as they momentarily stood almost nose to nose. And then his leg was sweeping Bruce’s back out from under him. Anticipating the fall this time, Bruce turned the momentum into a back handstand and used their proximity to hook both his legs around Hal’s middle and bring him crashing down as well. “What the fuck are you?” Hal gasped as he rolled away from him, though not without taking the opportunity to dig his knuckles into Bruce’s ribs for good measure. “I thought you were rich!” He rose to a kneeling position on the mat, one knee tucked up against his chest and a hand on the ground to maintain his balance as he caught his breath while he could. 

“Money doesn’t buy everything,” Bruce returned as he made a show of pretending to dust himself off as he got to his feet. He held his fists up in front of his own face, teasing, as Hal raised an eyebrow and got to his feet again to mirror his pose. “You, for example, must have learned on your own. And you’re more of a hassle than I’ve had to deal with in awhile.”

Hal smirked, “I’ll take that as a compliment, I think.” 

This time his movements were more calculated, slower as he watched the way Bruce parried him back with his forearms. He even let Bruce throw a few punches of his own, careful to block in the same way he’d just observed, before he suddenly twisted his body to the side so fluidly that Bruce didn’t quite realize what had happened until he was on his back again, Hal’s right arm pinning his own against his chest where it rested solidly across both of his wrists. “Little rich boy needs to learn a bit of street fighting,” he said, the spark in his eyes returning.

“And you need to learn some discipline,” Bruce said smoothly, pleased when Hal’s eyes widened at his nonchalant tone. “You get too ahead of yourself, and concentrate too much on the end goal rather than the moment.” He flashed him his very best billionaire smile, the one that always made Alfred rolls his eyes, and was rewarded with an enraged and flustered, “What the fu-” before he solidly knocked his elbows into the space below Hal’s ribs. 

Breathless, Hal allowed himself to be pushed off only to quickly round on him again, ducking a punch Bruce threw at him to roll to the side and kick out with a leg to knock his heel into the soft spot between his roommate’s shoulder blades. Bruce huffed, momentarily annoyed as he whirled to catch Hal’s ankle before he could draw it back. Hal however seemed to have been expecting this, and merely pushed back, knocking Bruce’s own knuckles into his chin. 

They separated again, Hal grinning as Bruce licked at the spot where he’d bitten his lip with the impact. Rising again, he taunted Hal into getting into that same basic sparring pose. He lifted his arms, one eyebrow raised as Hal reluctantly mimicked him. “You’re better at defense, aren’t you,” he said knowingly, and Hal’s eyes narrowed. “The way you learned was through defending yourself.”

“So what if it was?” Hal spat.

“Show me.”

This time he started the round, throwing a punch or two that Hal pushed back against the same way Bruce had shown him a few minutes before. He paused and lowered his arms, waiting as Hal quizzically did the same. “There we go,” he urged, “now show me how you really defend yourself.”

This time when he threw a punch, Hal dodged. It wasn’t necessarily a graceful movement by any means. In fact it was eerily akin to a flinch, saved only from being so by the flinty look he caught in Hal’s eyes that dared him to comment. He came forward with the other arm next, his interest peeking as Hal merely twisted out of the way again rather than raise his own fists in retaliation. Too late, he saw the other man’s plan as he swung for a third time and found his wrist caught in a firm grip as Hal danced around him to pin his arm behind his back. “This is the point,” Hal said with a tinge of steel in his tone, “where if we were in an alley, I’d smash your face into one of the brick walls.”

Bruce contemplated that thought for a moment, and then jerked his head back to knock it harshly against Hal’s face. Hal fell back with a yell, hands going up to clasp at his nose with a muffled string of expletives. The look he gave Bruce over the tops of his fingers was venomous. “And I here I thought you were all about playing by the rules,” he muttered into his palms. 

Bruce shrugged, “There’s always room to learn something new. Besides,” he hesitated, weighing his words before he let them fall from his lips, “you were right. In a more confined space, you would have taken the upper hand. I only countered that way because I couldn’t think of anything else. I don’t have that sort of experience.” He paused, if only for the dramatic effect of it as he walked over to stand over where Hal was still sitting sullenly on the mat. “Yet.”

He could almost feel the shock that radiated off of Hal as he slowly lowered his hands to gape up at Bruce. “Wha . . .”

“It would be mutually beneficial of course,” Bruce carried on as if he hadn’t heard. “You teach me what you know, and I teach you what I know.”

Suspicion clouded Hal’s expression for a heartbeat, “Why?”

Huh. Bruce stared down at him, the question so simple but more than enough to make his mind draw a momentary blank. Why indeed? He’d started his own training in various methods of self defense when he was nine, when the sound of pearls clattering on asphalt still rang too starkly in his ears and the tang of that coppery smell had still lingered in his nostrils. In the business world he had little use for those skills, and even less so a use for whatever Hal could offer that a private instructor couldn’t. Not to mention how little he needed a relationship such as this, one where he would not only be the student but also the teacher, taking up his time. The only reasoning he could think of was the same one that had made him give Alfred that list earlier. That it was somehow _right_. But he could hardly go explaining that feeling to Hal, could he. No. He couldn’t explain that furtive tug in his chest, the one that whispered to him that if he only had the skills and the allies as well as the assets, he might just be able to mould the world beneath his feet. 

So instead he cocked his head to the side, his very best fake smile in place, and tried to ignore the disbelieving frown Hal cast him in return. “You know us rich kids. Always liable to be kidnapped for an exorbitantly ridiculous ransom.”

“Is that what Bruce Wayne is up to these days?” A voice spoke cooly from behind them. “Beating on poor marines and getting kidnapped?”

There was familiarity in that tone, enough so that he barely heard Hal’s disgusted sputter of, “Marine?!” as he turned around, his eyes immediately lighting upon two dark haired women leaning against one of the equipment racks to the side of the mats. The taller of the pair was definitely a stranger to him, if only because he was fairly certain someone like her would have made an impression even if he’d only passed her on a crowded sidewalk. Her deep brown hair fell lightly over her forehead and bare shoulders, almost obscuring her navy blue eyes that would have made her seem shy if he didn’t instantly notice the way she was watching both his and Hal’s every movement as they approached. Her dress too was deceptive, the out of season burgundy crop top and jean shorts leading the casual observer towards stereotypes if they were too stupid to notice the way her muscles bulged under both. She raised an eyebrow as she caught Bruce staring, and lifted a hand that had a golden paracord bracelet on the wrist in a casual wave. 

“Dibs,” Hal whispered near his ear, and Bruce rolled his eyes as his attention shifted towards the other woman. 

Now this one he recognized, he thought with an odd mixture of apprehension and appreciation. More than a head shorter than her companion, she stood with her shoulder towards Bruce as she rifled through the pockets of the waistcoat he’d left hanging on the equipment rack, a sly smile visible through the curtain of her black hair as he strode towards her. She’d known he was coming to this school, he realized. He’d question how she knew, but she’d always been tight lipped about her sources. 

“Lois,” he said, leaning over the rack to swipe his waistcoat back. She blinked up at him with faux innocence as he went about throwing it back on and doing up the buttons. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Oh, you know me, Brucie, always up to no good.” She leaned her elbows on the equipment rack between them and rested her chin in her hands. “Which means I just came to see how our campus’s most esteemed member of the upper class was getting along with the regular joes. So imagine my surprise when I found him beating up on some poor marine!”

“How many pictures did you take?” Bruce asked at the same time Hal leaned into his shoulder to hiss out, “I am in the _air force_ ,” while pointing furiously into Lois’s face. 

“Seven . . .” Bruce raised an eyebrow. “ . . . teen. Seventeen,” Lois amended. “Also,” she tilted her head towards Hal, “I know you’re in the air force, bucko. I just don’t care.” She held up her phone to Bruce, displaying a rather intense looking set of photographs of the two of them rolling around on the gym mats just minutes before. “So, which will it be, babe? Personal, or professional?”

Bruce heaved out a sigh, “Professional. I have time tonight, if we can do it over dinner. I assume this is for the . . .” He squinted at her, “Classes haven’t started yet, so this can’t be an assignment.”

Lois smiled at him, eyes lighting up at his seemingly genuine interest. “Oh, I was hoping you’d ask. I’m head of the Journalism Club.”

“Of course you are,” Bruce deadpanned.

“I was thinking an interview with the elusive heir to the Wayne Foundation would look pretty on the first front page of the year.”

“I’d rather it didn’t,” Bruce said quietly, “if it’s all the same to you.”

Her eyes narrowed as she shifted her gaze from him to Hal and then to her own, still silent companion. “We can discuss it over dinner,” she decided after a pause. “I assume you guys got your cards activated?”

“We’re not idiots,” Hal muttered, his arms folding over his chest. “Also, yes, hello, what is it with people not introducing themselves before starting a conversation today?”

“You didn’t introduce yourself either,” Bruce reminded.

Hal threw his arms up in the air, “I wasn’t the one talking! This time!” he added when Bruce glanced over at him. 

Bruce sighed and shifted on his feet so he could face all of them. “Hal, this is Lois Lane. She’s a reporter, of sorts,” he ignored the incredulous, “Hey!” from her. “And Lois, this is Hal Jordan. He’s my roommate, unfortunately.” This time it was Hal’s turn to look offended. Lois, however, just leaned so comically far over the equipment rack at this news that Bruce automatically lifted a hand to brace it against her shoulder to keep her from tipping right over it.

“Bruce Wayne, slumming it with the common folk?” she gasped. “Oh my god, please let me publish that as the new headline.”

“Lois,” Bruce pleaded.

She rolled her eyes and let out an over dramatic sigh. “Fine. Anyways, boys, this is Diana Prince. My new roommate.”

At her introduction, Diana straightened and held out her hand to them. Bruce took it first, schooling his expression as she shook it with a painfully firm grip. Hal however kept no such poker face, and winced when his fingers too were crushed under hers a moment later. “What happened to your old roommate?” Bruce asked. 

Lois shrugged, “There’s a list, do you want the whole thing? We can start with the fact that she hated that I wouldn’t go out to stupid Rush Week parties with her, and end with the point that she never once bought toilet paper for our bathroom. Diana is already a vast improvement. She’s not an airhead, she can crush me with just her thighs, and she’s full of mysteries,” she articulated this last bit with jazz hands.

“I’m not full of,” Diana frowned and lifted her own hands to replicate Lois's display, “mysteries.” It was the first time she’d spoken, and Bruce’s eyebrows furrowed as he noted an indiscernible accented lilt to her words. Lois leveled Bruce with a side eye that spoke volumes of something he wasn’t sure he wanted to be involved in. Then again, he thought with resignation, he’d already promised her a conversation over dinner.

~~~***~~~

Bruce had met Lois Lane when she was still in high school. She had snuck into a charity gala, done up to the nines as much as her budget would allow, and approached him with the name of a publication he didn’t recognize. He’d been intrigued to say the least, not just by the way she stood out like a sore thumb in the midst of the gala, but by her tenacity despite that. So he’d granted her an exclusive, something to publish in both her school newspaper as well as submit for consideration to a few more notable online hubs. Imagine his surprise when the following week, he’d been greeted with his own picture on the front page of the Daily Planet website, and Lois’ name printed at the head of the story that had won an amature journalists competition with a scholarship prize.

They hadn’t seen each other since, of course, but he’d kept up with her budding career whenever her name popped up online. Or at least that’s what he told the press when they asked repeatedly what their connection was after she’d won the competition. 

Whether or not Bruce forwarded her snippets of corruption he’d picked up on while he’d been interning in the two years prior was no one’s business but his own. He’d done it under the guise of anonymity, but he’d always suspected that she knew it was him beneath those burner emails.

Apparently, he hadn’t been the only one keeping tabs either.

“You knew I was going to be attending school here,” he accused, pointing his fry at her across the table the four of them had commandeered in the dining hall. 

She knocked her ankle against his under the table. “Of course I did. I’m the one who put you on the mailing list for the school in the first place.”

Between them Hal rubbed his hands together, grinning at Bruce’s slack jawed expression. “Oh man, this is so juicy! Go on!” Diana continued picking at her chili cheese fries like she’d never seen such a thing before in her life and seemed to be ignoring the lot of them, but Bruce didn’t miss the subtle flick of her eyes when Lois started speaking again.

“Your parents will was made public back when there was a bit of a custody battle over you,” Lois continued. “And the board of directors at Wayne Enterprises have been notoriously ruthless in the past thirteen years they've held on to the company. They'll look for any loophole they can to keep someone as liberally vocal as you out of their hair. So something like exact wording of the will probably isn't beneath them. I figured your guardian would catch onto that eventually too, especially since you were clearly already making your moves to take over both the company and the charity foundation with your previous schooling and that internship you took on. So I made sure brochures for Iustita made it into the stack I'm sure flooded your mailbox the second it got out that you were looking to add yet another degree to your toolbelt.”

“I don't have a, a _toolbelt_ ,” Bruce muttered.

“You already have a degree? What the fuck even are you?!” Hal interjected. 

“And then I broke into the school records and saw you had registered in May,” Lois continued as if neither of them had spoken. “So I came looking for you because like hell am I letting this scoop get away when I practically engineered it.” 

She shrugged, her hands held aloft as if this was all some wacky accident rather than a series of steps assembled to make Bruce's life a living hell. He sighed and let his head fall into his hands. “I've created a monster.”

Lois laughed, “Ha! I was like this from birth, Brucie. You just provided the story that launched me into scholarship material.”She waved a hand nonchalantly and then used the same hand to stuff more fries into her mouth. “Anyways, I'm still interviewing you. We can leave out your name if we must, I can respect that, but I can spin this in a way that'll sound fantastic anyways. I'm thinking a piece about how the boundaries of our classist society crumble away in the midst of campus life.” As she spoke she spread her hands out in the air like she was framing out the article in the space above the table. “Hell, I'll take Air Force McGee over here on as well for the opposite side of the spectrum.” Hal made an odd face at that, clearly torn between his loathing for the latest moniker she'd smacked him with and excitement at being in the school paper. “Diana, you're in too. A foreign exchange student has a lot of that mysterious appeal readers will dig.”

“I'm from here,” Diana said without looking up from where she was still trying to decipher the secrets of chili cheese fries. 

“No you're not.” Lois retorted without breaking either tone or stride. “But seriously, Bruce, please?” 

Bruce startled slightly as she reached across the table to grab one of his hands away from his face, cupping it between both of her own. “I know you think that you're doing Bambi eyes right now,” he said stiffly, “but all I can see is your clearly insatiable thirst for an interview, and it's extremely unnerving.”

She squeezed his hand harder, “Bruuuuuce.”

“Lois,” he said flatly.

Diana, having finally seemed to decide chili fries were in fact edible, watched this exchange while digging into her dinner with surprising speed and precision. “He could come to the booth tomorrow,” she suggested, somehow managing not to spray all of them with chili. 

Lois's eyes lit up, “The booth! Yes! The Journalism Club has a booth at the student fair tomorrow, you should come!”

“I'm passing out fliers,” Diana announced, and Bruce had to wonder at how how she made something so mundane sound exciting just by the tone of her voice. Perhaps, like chili cheese fries, she didn't know what fliers were. 

Hal was apparently of the same mindset, as he leveled her with an incredulous furrow of his eyebrows. “Do you know what fliers are?”

“Of course I do,” Diana huffed. “I'm not a child.”

Bruce was now almost certain she didn't know what fliers were. Tearing his mind away from that distracting train of thought, he turned back to Lois with a clipped, “Why would I want to go anywhere near your Journalism booth? You're just going to try and pounce on me and harass me for an interview again.”

Predictably, Lois jerked her hands away from his in order to clutch them to her chest with one of the most sarcastic gasps he'd ever heard. “Harass? Bruce, I only do this out of love!” She pretended to dab at her eyes with an invisible handkerchief, simultaneously reaching into the pocket of her jeans for her phone. “Also, I still have these as collateral,” she smirked, flashing Bruce her collection of pictures from that afternoon, now lovingly sorted into an album he noted had been titled “Really Gay Shit.”

“Neat,” Hal said, leaning over the table to get a better look at some of the pictures. “I mean, I honestly don't give a shit either way. Chicks dig bi guys these days so that seems like good PR for me.” 

“We were fighting,” Bruce's head fell back into his hands with a groan. 

Hal grinned and gestured to him with a fry, “Yo, you ever seen those pics of college wrestling tournaments? Everything can look gay if you take a picture of it at the wrong moment.” 

“I'll come by the booth if we can stop talking about this _right now_ ,” Bruce said into his palms. 

Lois whooped, and Hal tskd disapprovingly. “Rich kids,” he sighed, “So repressed. Anyways,” he tapped at his phone for a few seconds before sliding it across the table to Diana, “Here's those wrestling pics. See what I mean?” 

“That's a headlock,” Diana said around another mouthful of fries.

“But he's practically laying on the other guys back,” Hal pointed out. “And now see in this one-”

Bruce pushed away from the table to a chorus of boos, and made his way back to the dorm without a backwards glance.

~~~***~~~

Alfred hadn't left Bruce with his hoard of Walmart goods he was already regretting until he'd promised to at least try and send a goodnight text daily. Try being the keyword there of course. Still bitter about the entire situation, Bruce had agreed with nothing more than a nod as he sorted through the piles of school supplies and dorm necessities now taking up his entire desk. 

Whether or not he sent the requested text less than ten minutes later, a warm feeling bubbling up in his chest when Alfred responded immediately, was no one's business but his own.

He let the natural light of the fall evening slowly bathe the room in darkness as he lay on his back across his too-small twin bed, his hands folded together on his stomach and his eyes trained resolutely on the ceiling. It was from this position that, despite being well immersed in his own thoughts, he could easily hear Hal stomping down the hall long before he flung the door open after a brief struggle with his key. It was petulant behavior, Bruce knew, to refuse to look at Hal as he stalked into the room and flopped down to sit loosely on his own bed on the other side of the room, but he did it anyways. It would be far more childish to pretend to be asleep, he thought. 

“Do you often contemplate the secrets of the universe alone in the dark, Spooky?” Hal asked. Bruce refrained from pointing out that he hadn't turned on the light either, but only just barely. “Whatever,” Hal sighed. “I got the girls’ numbers for you, by the way, so we know what time to meet them at the fair tomorrow.” When Bruce still didn't answer he muttered something indecipherable under his breath and pushed himself off the side of his bed to come perch on the end of Bruce's. “Look, I don't know what kind of rich kid private school bullshit you put up with before, but I'm gonna hedge on a guess that you've never had any friends before.” 

Bruce sat up finally, one knee curling up towards his chest as he glared at Hal in the darkness. “I don't need any friends.”

“Right,” Hal agreed immediately, making Bruce's breath hitch just from the shock of the unexpected response. “I don't either. I spent most of my school days getting the shit beat out of me after my dad died. I hate kids, they're . . . Really terrible. But I'm not a kid anymore. I mean,” he picked absently at the lapels of his uniform, “at least I don't feel like I am. Not with this. But the point is . . .” He turned his head to the side, meeting Bruce's eyes in the darkness. “Sometimes I think about how shitty it would be to die when I'm deployed with only my mom and siblings left behind to remember me, and it makes me feel like I'm dead already.”

He kicked his feet where he sat for a moment, seemingly lost in that thought as he turned his gaze away towards the open window where a warm autumn breeze fluttered against the curtains. The silence lingered, broken only by the distant thunder of the storm Bruce had noted that afternoon, and Hal didn't look at him as he finally nodded to himself and pushed off of Bruce's bed to go climb onto his own. Bruce fell back and rolled over on his side to watch, head pillowed on his crooked elbow as Hal slowly undid his combat boots and eventually lay down on his bare mattress with his patrol cap tilted over his eyes. 

“Hal,” he whispered, and as soft as the syllable was spoken, it still felt like a crack of lightning in the shadowed room. Hal tilted his hat back up, but didn't reply. “On my desk . . .” He swallowed, “My butler, he got a bit overzealous with buying me stuff he thought I'd need. If there's anything in there that catches your eye, feel free to take it.” 

Hal studied him in the darkness, mouth quirked down as he rose to flick on the lightswitch on his side of the room and reveal the absurd amount of Walmart bags taking up Bruce's desk. “Spoiled,” he muttered, but he made his way over to the collection anyways. 

He seemed uninterested in the school supplies for the most part, his frown sticking to his face until he finally tipped out the biggest bag to spill its contents onto the mess. Despite already knowing what was inside, Bruce feigned his interest when two sets of sheets and comforters rolled out. Hal raised an eyebrow as he picked one up, the rich forest green color of the set reflecting in his dark eyes. “Let me guess, you don't know how to do your own laundry,” he snorted.

“I'll learn,” Bruce said noncommittally. 

“You'll have to learn a lot quicker if I take these,” Hal pointed out. Bruce could see the gears turning in his head as he looked between the set of bedding and Bruce. There was an accusation on the tip of his tongue, and Bruce could see the idea that this was somehow some sort of charity burning indignantly in his eyes. And maybe it was, what with how Bruce had made the decision to buy them before they'd even properly met. But he could have kept it. He'd been angry, and he could have kept it.

Except, he was sure, Hal knew that.

He watched the fire burn down from where he still had his head pillowed on his elbow, watched as Hal's shoulders shook for a moment before he tipped back his head and laughed. “You're so _weird_ ,” he wheezed out between snickers. “Glaring at me like that while you're trying to give me a gift.” He shook his head, and Bruce tried not to visibly shiver at how bizarrely fond the motion seemed. “Tell you what, you come to the student fair tomorrow, and I'll accept this gift. I'll also teach you how to do laundry. Out of the goodness of my heart of course.”

“How kind of you,” Bruce drawled.

Hal flashed him a wide grin, “Right?” He laughed again, muffling the sound into his fist as he tried to hold it back. “Okay, okay. Seriously though. Lois feels terrible about chasing you away earlier. You'll make her day if you stop by her booth.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow, “No interviews level of terrible?”

“Look man, I'm just the messenger, not a miracle worker. Also, how can you pass up the chance to witness Diana discovering that fliers are just pieces of paper?”

Turning his head to hide a smile in the crook of his elbow, Bruce huffed out a clipped, “Fine.”

Later, when the lights were out again and Hal was burritoed into his new comforter and sheets, Bruce pulled his old baseball out his backpack and tossed it softly into the air. Like many nights prior, the quiet sound and feel of it falling back to earth into his waiting hands was a comfort. Alfred had joked once, when he was much smaller, about the familiar motion being the oddest of lullabies, but that wasn't far off. He tossed it up, careful not to hit the ceiling and equally careful to pass his thumb over the mismatched line between the blue and red thread on every other catch. 

It was unsettling, how quickly Hal had cornered him into something like the truth.

Bruce Wayne didn't have friends, didn't do friends, as it was. He'd never had either the time or the inclination.

Well, almost never.

He threw the ball up, watching the white hide catch the moonlight that filtered in through the open window. It was a lullaby, a tune to the hope that he would dream of falling asleep under the myriad of stars that had speckled a country night sky in a distant memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so for anyone who cares, I really am very sorry for my absence, but I won't be finishing any fics that were previously unfinished. Sometimes bad things happen that break a person, and they don't want to be reminded of that time, or they don't want to pick up the pieces of inspirations that were ruined during that time. 
> 
> This is the fic I want to work on. This one. It's the first time I've really felt inspired to write anything for three years, and I'm going to do my very best to stay excited about it. 
> 
> I'm also well aware that my writing skills have waned considerably in my absence. I'm hoping with a multichapter I can try and nurture those skills back to where they once were and then make them even better than before. So if this seems like a bit of a rough start, that's because it is. Please bear with me. 
> 
> As always your comments make my day. I've continued reading them all this time, on all my works, and it was the only thing that made me feel like maybe one day I could return to the fanfic world again with any sort of confidence. Thank you :3


	2. Crowd of Thousands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The student fair, and the Journalism Club in particular, have a lot more to them than Bruce initially thought. Foreshadowing, cameos, and brief allusions abound!

“Why the fuck don't you own any normal clothes?”

Bruce groaned and rolled over onto his stomach, reaching for his pillow to pull it over his head. It had taken him far too long to fall asleep last night, too discomforted with the strange room, strange bed, and strange sounds of the dormitory to feel truly tired. Regardless, the incredulous tone of Hal's voice was more than enough to rouse him from his hazy dreams, if only because he was alarmed that Hal was apparently once again in his things without him having heard or noticed, sleep be damned. His hand groped for a moment under his pillow before he unplugged his phone and tilted its near-blinding light towards himself to reveal that it was a little past six in the morning. Odd. He hadn't really pegged Hal for a morning person. Then again, personality wise he wouldn't have thought Hal would be a military person either. Maybe that was it. Blearily, he peeked out from under the pillow to ask, “How long have you been off base?”

“A week,” Hal chirped back immediately to the tune of Bruce's hangers clacking together. “Anyways, first thing's first, your clothes suck, and you're not going to the student fair in a suit.”

“Check the drawers,” Bruce growled into the mattress before burying his head under the pillow again. 

He faintly heard Hal gasp in what was either some of the best acting he'd ever heard or genuine astonishment. “Jeans! T-shirts! You're a human being!”

“The mightiest of compliments,” Bruce muttered. “Can we please go back to sleep? The sun is barely up.”

There was a soft thump as something, and Bruce assumed it was some of his own clothes, landed on top of his comforter. “Nope!” Hal sing-songed, “The gym opens in fifteen minutes and _someone_ promised to spar with me.”

Bruce sat up then, the pillow plopping unceremoniously into his lap as he ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Right, right.” He fumbled around unseeing on the bed until his fingers curled around what he found to be a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, which he proceeded to add to the pile in his lap without comment. 

Hal was standing with his hands flat on the desk at the end of Bruce's bed, his eyes narrowed until they suddenly lit up with understanding. “You know, there's a coffee shop on the first floor of this building,” he hedged with a smirk. 

“Now you're speaking my language.”

~~~***~~~

Two cups of coffee and an hour later, Bruce had a much better handle on how Hal managed himself in a fight than he had the day before. He'd started to pick up on it the last time, pinning him with the fact that the brunette tended to be too optimistic in achieving his desired outcome, but he could see now that it was more than that. Hal was incredibly impulsive, quick to react but also oddly constructive in the manner on which he did so. Each action had a clear series of steps to it, both before and after, and if Bruce didn't think quickly enough he found himself easily falling into the exact motions Hal wanted him to. As long as he stayed mindful of that, he could use Hal's rash reactions in his favor. 

Which was how he ended up flipping Hal over his back finally, grabbing him by his extended arm and slamming him into the mat behind him. Hal wheezed for a few moments, flushed and thoroughly winded, before he climbed to his feet and crooked his hand towards Bruce. “Alright, fair enough,” he admitted as Bruce approached. “But let's see if you can pull it off if I start fighting you like an asshole.”

Bruce tensed as Hal lunged for him again, hands immediately catching the other man around the bicep to swing him over his shoulder. Except, halfway through the motion, his stomach dropped as Hal's fingers hooked into the collar of his shirt from overhead. The cloth tightened across the front of his throat, digging into his skin, and that brief second of instinctive panic that flared up in him was more than enough for his grip to falter and send them both crashing down in a heap. 

Hal yelped and they rolled away from each other, his eyes wide as Bruce reached up to rub a hand across the front of his neck with a grimace. “Sorry!” He panted, “I thought that's what you-”

“It is what I want,” Bruce cut him off with a shake of his head. “I just got caught off guard.” That wasn't entirely true, he thought ruefully as Hal stood up to extend a hand to him and pull him to his feet. The brief choking feeling had been a little too familiar, but like hell he was going to clue Hal in that yet another thing he'd said the night before had been too accurate for comfort. He'd long ago found that the best way to get over a fear was through repeated exposure. “Come at me again,” he commanded when Hal seemed uncertain. “I can handle it.”

And he could. The light that streamed through the glass walls of the gymnasium made it impossible to mistake for the dark corridors of a boarding school, and Hal's eyes were a rich brown rather than that terrifying steel grey. Though, perhaps most importantly, lay the fact that he was sure that if he asked, Hal would let go. 

When Hal still hesitated, Bruce huffed out a sigh and let his arms fall to his sides. “Right, okay . . . How about this. Where did you learn how to fight?” Hal blinked at him. “ _How_ did you learn how to fight,” he rephrased. 

“I told you,” Hal scowled, “the kids in my neighborhood were assholes.”

“And you learned because you had to,” Bruce filled in. “Because your survival instinct kicked in and you adapted through mimicry.”

Hal opened his mouth and then snapped it closed again, his eyebrows furrowing. “I mean, that's a dramatic way of putting it, but it's not entirely inaccurate.”

“I can't learn without experience,” Bruce explained, starting to pace in front of him with his arms folded over his chest. “And without experience, if I get into a situation where someone fights dirty, I won't be able to - won't _know how to_ adapt in the moment and overcome it.”

A short, choked nervous laugh escaped Hal. “You sound like you're planning on beating up petty criminals in dark alleyways.” When Bruce just calmly lifted an eyebrow, he sputtered out, “Jesus Christ, are you!?”

“I won't have to if you teach me,” Bruce said evenly. He shrugged when Hal just stared at him with wide eyes, “I have to get the experience somewhere, don't I?” He ignored Hal's flabbergasted whisper of, “ _For what!?_ ” And carried on with a put upon sigh. “Alleyways seem like the next best option, if you're not up for it.”

“Of course I'm- you! Oh for-” Hal stuttered, frustration etched into the myriad of dirty looks he cast Bruce before he finally rocked back on his heels, hands held out like claws in front of him. “Fine! But don't come crying to me if you end up getting hurt!”

Bruce smirked and matched his position. “I could say the same for you.”

~~~***~~~

“Is this going to be a daily thing?” Lois asked as she swept Bruce's hair back with her fingers, a bag of ice held to his right temple where beneath the first greenish tints of a bruise had started to bloom. “Because I think starting a campus Fight Club is against the rules.” 

Bruce didn't look up from where he sat under the shelter of the pop-up canopy of the booth, one of the newspapers held open in his hands. “It's not a ‘Fight Club,’” he said as he turned the page, “It's training. And it was an accident.” Which was mostly the truth, Hal definitely hadn't meant to hurt him. Whether or not his elbow had caught him in the side of the head in the middle of Bruce trying to toss him over his back again was besides the point. “But yes,” he went on, quieting Lois before she could interject, “I am aware that it can't be a daily activity once classes start on Monday. Hal has an eight AM on Tuesdays and Thursdays.” 

“Oh, ew,” Lois exclaimed with sympathy.

Hal looked up from where he'd pulled up a chair beside Diana, attention momentarily diverted from where she was intently folding fliers for the Journalism Club into alarmingly intricate paper airplanes. “You know I'm like, ‘army tough’, or whatever, right?” He said, sounding as if he was quoting some sort of commercial Bruce hadn't seen. “I can totally make a commitment to school shit that early.”

Lois leaned down so Bruce could clearly see her raised eyebrow around the ice pack. “Three weeks?” she whispered.

“Two,” Bruce wagered. 

They nodded to each other, the bet made, and Bruce turned another page in his paper over the sound of Hal's muttered protests. Lois had studiously only included copies of the paper that she had articles in, and Bruce admired the variety she provided. There were pieces about campus activism, school slice of life snippets, and even updates on the political happenings of the neighboring city of Metropolis, the latter of which he suspected was meant to catch the eye of _The Daily Planet_. His eyes skimmed a lengthy article on a local high school's community service program that partnered with some sort of group home for wayward youths on the back page and caught on a distinctive logo adorning the bottom corner. He'd seen it before of course, the popping, comic book reminiscent font surrounded by a classic, spikey explosion. The only difference here was that it was in newsprint black and white rather than it's usual blues and reds. _The Everyday_ was the news blog Lois had started after she won _The Daily Planet's_ scholarship program two years before. She had artfully used the press she herself had received from winning to promote it, and it had maintained a decent sized viewership ever since. It was a lot more globally oriented than the school papers Lois worked on before, and Bruce felt a small buzz of satisfaction whenever he saw one of their articles quoted somewhere else, proud of both her and himself for his own part to play in the article that had kickstarted the site. Lazily he traced the symbol with his thumb as he muttered, “Self promotion in the school paper, Lois? Scandalous.”

Lois squinted down at him, “You're literally wearing Wayne branded jeans right now. They probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.” She stuck her tongue out at him when he just winked at her. “Anyways, we still haven't discussed that interview since yesterday.” She leaned a little more weight against the ice pack, and Bruce grimaced. “I still think it's a good idea, maybe even better if we leave your name and specifics out. We're a college that has a good percent of the students going directly into the Metropolis workforce, so having an article that tries to disassemble class hierarchy coming from us . . .” She drew off, and Bruce glanced up at her to catch the thoughtful look she was directing at the distant skyline. “That would really piss _him_ off.” A smile, stunningly ruthless, broke out across her face. “Wouldn't that be fun?”

A tingle of sick delight curled in Bruce's chest at the thought. “He'll know I'm the one being interviewed,” he warned, although if he were honest that just made the appeal of the whole thing that much more tantalizing. 

Lois hummed a low, considering sound, her eyes still narrowed at the horizon of skyscrapers. “Worth it,” she decided after a pause. “But that means I'll have to drop Hal from the project. You know he has his claws in the military, and it could come back to bite us.” She chewed on her lip as she moved the ice pack away from the side of Bruce's head to examine the bruise. “But that means I need to find someone else to fill the spot for the lower class viewpoint.” The bag of ice was tossed over her shoulder, landing with impressive precision into the trash can behind her. “I already have an idea.”

“Of course you do,” Bruce drawled, already pushing back his chair to stand. “You’ve had it for awhile now, maybe even since we talked yesterday.” 

“You know me so well,” Lois beamed. She moved around him, tapping her fingers against the back of his abandoned chair, “This was supposed to be the part where I revealed my right hand man to you, preferably to the tune of the _Hamilton_ track that hopefully invoked in your mind, but,” her phone was in her hand now, her fingers already flying across the screen, “he’s late, as usual, ruining all of my hopes and dreams.” Pocketing her phone again, she crossed her arms over her chest. 

“Your right hand man sounds like a bit of a mess,” Bruce surmised. 

Lois shrugged, “So he says as well. He’s my research assistant and editor on _The Everyday_ , best guy around at picking up information.” She winked at him, “Other than yourself, of course. He helped bust open that story last year about the animal experimentation at the Gotham Aquarium.” 

“The one _I_ sent you an email about in the first place?”

“Mmhmm,” Lois confirmed. “Charity galas seem to get you behind the scenes, and that’s all well and good, but he gets me the physical evidence I can actually print. You should meet him.” 

Bruce narrowed his eyes, “Are you sure this kid is lost? I’m starting to get the feeling you, I don’t know, gave him the wrong location or time to meet so that this exact situation could happen?”

He could see Lois biting the inside of her lip, eyes wide as she struggled, and then failed to contain a burst of laughter. “Okay, that would be hilarious, but no. He really is just lost.” She gestured out at the mill of people outside the booth, “He has some sort of sensory issues, doesn’t do well with crowds.” She waved a dismissive hand at him as a someone approached the booth. “But I can’t go look for him, I have to be here to answer questions and try and recruit more people. I swear to god, I didn’t set that up.” Bruce raised an eyebrow at her as she handed one of Diana’s paper airplane fliers to the bewildered looking redhead who had stopped to check the papers out. “Please?” she continued, the redhead momentarily occupied with unfolding the airplane. “He can’t be too far, and he’s kinda hard to miss. Just look for the guy who looks like the offspring of a stereotypical nerd and The Rock. He’s also probably wearing plaid, because he’s a disaster.”

Barely restraining himself from throwing his hands up in the air, Bruce huffed out, “Fine.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to where Hal and Diana had stopped making airplanes to watch them, “Do you want me to give the kids an allowance before I leave as well, dear?”

“No,” Hal gagged, the retort overshadowed by Diana’s contradicting, “Yes!”

Just for that, he shoved Hal’s head down as he passed on his way out from behind the booth. 

~~~***~~~

It wasn’t exactly as though Bruce considered himself a detective. A more accurate description, especially in conjunction with Lois’ articles on The Everyday, was that he was a purveyor of facts. Secret facts, facts that he technically wasn’t supposed to know or had whittled out of his contacts via flattery and just plain lying through his teeth, but that was nitpicking, in his opinion. Anyways, the point was, Lois forgot to tell him the one really important detail that would actually help him find her friend, apparently assuming he was god damn Sherlock Holmes and that the descriptors of, “ _Offspring of a stereotypical nerd and The Rock_ ,” and “ _Plaid_ ,” were enough to find a needle in a haystack of people.

He’d been through seven rows of booths now and hadn’t found a single person matching that description. And he blamed Lois entirely because she hadn’t told him her friend’s name. His fucking _name_. On a long, long list of details that seemed more important than the fact that the dude apparently dressed like a lumberjack, knowing the guy’s name should have been at the top. Technically, he could just text her and ask, but knowing Lois that would quickly become a point of ridicule, and Bruce wanted to keep those to a minimum before classes had even started. Anything that could be held over his head was likely to join a pile of blackmail she could use towards her ultimate goal, which he was starting to suspect was him joining the Journalism Club. Asking for help now, after over a half hour of combing the student fair for her mysterious research assistant, would be like admitting defeat, and that just wasn’t an option.

Bruce dragged his hand over his face at the thought and tried to recall anything else he knew about Lois’s collaborator on _The Everyday_ as he weaved his way through the crowds of the fair. As far as he was aware, Lois had never actually credited the guy by name. He always was either mentioned in passing and in vague terms alluding to an unspecified source, or more often not at all. When it came to editing, he had only been cited as having a hand at the bottom of the articles with a link to Lois’s email address to which to direct inquiries of his resume. He paused, a brief chill working its way up his spine as he wondered if there were other publications her friend worked for under similar conditions, and if he just hadn’t noticed before. That idea alone would normally make him think the man was older, but Lois had said she wanted the upcoming article to feature student voices. Perhaps another slightly less than traditional student like himself? Someone who already had a metaphorical toolbelt of other experience neatly packaged under an apparently plaid facade? Bruce shook his head at the thought, if only because the descriptor pulled at a little too many of his boarding school memories of Oliver Queen to sit well with him, and he was fairly certain Lois wasn’t quite cruel enough to spring that on him as a surprise. Yet.

Then there was the little tidbit about sensory issues. Bruce hummed to himself as he mulled that one over, and almost subconsciously paused outside a booth packed with the local high school’s football team holding homemade donation boxes for some local charity. He handed a couple of twenties to the nearest player, ignoring the young man’s surprised, “Oh!” as he passed. Something about the way Lois had mentioned her friend’s potential disability didn’t sit right with him. She had sounded almost sarcastic, and she wasn’t the type of person who would be cruel enough to degrade someone in that manner. Which meant that, for some reason, she didn’t believe him. 

Going on that alone, he wasn’t looking for some body-building geek who didn’t like loud noises and crowds. He was looking for someone who wanted everyone around him to make all of those things, their first impressions, enough of a reality to not look any deeper. 

A small smile twitched in the corners of his mouth. Lois had given him a mystery she herself couldn’t solve, it seemed. And it was a gift he accepted with nothing short of glee. The only question was, where to start?

His first clue was the sensory issues, it had to be. The guy wouldn’t actually be lost if they were entirely fake, because someone faking such a thing would have been dumb enough to stumble across the booth eventually just by bumbling their way through the fair. So it was likely the issues were real, but that either Lois’s assumptions or her knowledge of them given by her friend were false. 

Bruce turned on his heel and made his way to the end of the row towards where the food stands lined the outer rim of the entire fair. _The Everyday_ was above all an online journal of modern day activism. Its sidebar was divided into categories that made up complete titles; Neighbor, Student, Family, Friend, Hero. And Lois’s research assistant organized, edited, and found sources for a lot of those topics. At the very least he was probably a good guy, especially if he put up with Lois’s eternal quest for journalistic justice on a more regular basis than Bruce did. So sensory issues, a decent moral compass, a likely high rate of compassion, and a terrible fashion sense . . .

His eyes lit upon a corn dog stand that was bunched up next to an inflatable obstacle course the campus basketball team was in the midst of setting up. Or . . . Bruce narrowed his eyes as he made his way towards it, taking in the sight of a broad shouldered man dressed in an undeniably plaid button up showing a frazzled looking player how to patch a sizable hole in the side. Apparently it was in the midst of being repaired by a boy scout with an expertise in the many uses of duct tape. Bruce hummed thoughtfully to himself, and turned instead to the corn dog stand to place an order. Not for himself, of course. If Alfred ever found out he'd eaten a corn dog he'd probably burn down the kitchen in the manor and call his life of making the majority of Bruce's meals a colossal waste of time.

“You-” Bruce jumped a bit, spinning to catch sight of stunningly dark blue eyes looking down at him. “You're Bruce Wayne.”

“Really? I had no idea,” Bruce smirked. He leaned back on his heels a bit to get a better look at Lois’s mysterious research assistant. With a good two inches of height advantage and the build Bruce would usually only expect to see on someone who had been a gym rat since birth, Lois’s description of the guy wasn't too far off. Especially not when coupled with his thick rectangular glasses and curly bangs. He seemed thrown off by Bruce's sarcastic response, a tiny frown wrinkling in the corners of his mouth that made Bruce's stomach give an uncomfortable twist. So he did the only thing he could think of to change that expression; hand the guy one of the corn dogs. “You're Lois's friend, right? She sent me to get you.”

For a heartbeat he wondered if he'd gotten it wrong, what with the bemused way the man stared at him and then the corn dog. But then he smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he whispered a soft, “Oh,” that Bruce wasn't sure he was supposed to hear. “Sorry,” he went on, extending the hand that wasn't holding a corn dog for Bruce to shake. “That was rude of me. I'm Clark Kent.” His eyes flicked to the corn dog again, “You, uh, got me a corn dog?” 

Bruce shook his hand and shrugged, “You look like the sort of guy that likes corn dogs.”

“It's the plaid, isn't it?” His eyes were crinkling again, and Bruce suddenly realized that the expression was Clark trying his damnedest not to smile. 

“Definitely, it just screams, ‘please feed me corn dogs,’” Bruce gestured over his shoulder with his free hand, back towards the booths. “It also screams ‘Paul Bunyan was my idol when I was five,’ or ‘I like pretentious music and privately owned coffee shops that specialize in avocados and kale.’” He paused to give Clark a wry look over his shoulder. “So which is it?”

Clark choked on his last bite of corn dog, “Uh, neither? I grew up on a farm.”

His interest piqued, Bruce turned and started walking backwards to better carry on the conversation. “So you're saying farmers have a dress code?”

“No . . . It's a . . . Fashion choice . . .” His tone suggested that admitting that was akin to getting stabbed, and Bruce couldn't help the shocked, genuine laugh that bubbled up and out of him. Clark's mouth snapped shut, his eyes widening as Bruce stopped walking to slap a hand over his face in an attempt to stifle his sudden mirth. 

Getting ahold of himself, Bruce straightened up and extended the second corn dog towards Clark, who mutely took it, apparently still as stunned by Bruce's laughter as he was. “Well, despite the odds it somehow looks good on you, farm boy. Congrats on your choices, I guess.” He turned back around and continued to lead the way back to the journalism club booth, his hands now devoid of corn dogs instinctively shifting to settle in the pockets of his jeans. He hoped Clark wasn't good enough at reading people to see it as defensive rather than nonchalant. Luckily, the other man still seemed preoccupied by Bruce's earlier outburst, and merely jogged to catch up in silence, already chewing on the second corn dog. 

Eventually Bruce stopped to let Clark toss his empty sticks into a nearby trash can. He tensed when Clark returned, recognizing the light in his eyes as the exact level of curiosity that killed the journalist Lois always had whenever she was about to pester him. “So,” Clark started, “you know Lois?” Bruce arched an eyebrow at him, and Clark faltered. “I mean, of course you do, she interviewed you for that big exposé piece.”

“What are you really trying to ask me?” Bruce prodded, now in step with him. “No need to get so roundabout, I'll be honest.” His posture was odd, Bruce noticed, hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller. It matched his hesitant speech mannerisms, but neither of those details seemed wholly genuine. Learned, perhaps, but still deceptive. Why? 

Clark straightened a bit under his stare, his own eyes narrowing slightly. “You already have two degrees, you were expected to take over both Wayne Enterprises and the Wayne Foundation at the start of the fiscal year. But you're here at some unassuming college outside Metropolis instead, being buddy-buddy with the up and coming writer of _The Everyday_. Why?”

Bruce whistled, “You seem to know a lot about me, Clark. And as the research assistant and editor of _The Everyday_ , I suspect you already know the answer to that question. And if you don't,” he rolled his shoulders, pleased when Clark frowned at the casualness of the action, “Well, we have an interview scheduled already. Actually, we should probably get to it.” He swept a hand ahead of them, towards the booth where Lois could be seen frantically waving at them.

He thanked all the gods he didn't believe in that he had already ducked under the canopy and thus out of Clark's line of sight when one of Diana's paper airplanes beaned the other man right in face. Hal however didn't miss the shaking of Bruce's shoulders as he smothered another laugh into his hand, and gave him a side-eye that could curdle milk. 

~~~***~~~

“So, let's start with why you're here.”

Bruce glanced up at Lois, his chin in his hand and his elbow on his knee. “Blackmail,” he deadpanned. Beside her, Clark raised an eyebrow, and Bruce watched it climb higher as she put her head in her hands. 

“Okay, fine,” she conceded, “That's fair. Do _not_ write that down, Clark!” The pen was smacked out of her assistant's hands where it had been hovering over the open page of his notebook. To Bruce's surprise, Clark caught the thing before it could hit the ground. Their eyes met for a second as he did it, and Clark quickly looked away and fumbled the pen, this time letting it fall to the grass before he picked it up. “Let's try this again,” Lois continued, seemingly having not noticed this brief oddity. “Bruce, what made you choose Iustitia University?”

Bruce opened his mouth to repeat his earlier answer but snapped it shut again as Lois leveled him with a knowing glare. He pressed out a sigh through his nostrils and readjusted himself in his seat, straightening his back and settling his hands in his lap. “Notoriety,” he said simply, “or more like lack thereof. Iustitia is a school that holds prestige while opening its doors to everyone, not just those with money and high grades.” He watched Clark scribble something in his notebook and added, “Not that I don't have both of those.” Clark's pen scratched something out and Bruce smirked. “But the point is, here I could blend in and just be one face among many. People like me usually choose schools that _only_ accept people like them. I wasn't interested in any of that.”

“Is that why you chose to study Mechanical Engineering and Forensic Science then?” Lois prompted. “A lack of interest in the typical pursuits of the upper class?” 

He waved a dismissive hand. “Not exactly, considering I already hold both a Business and a Marketing degree. But I always was of the opinion that people in positions of power shouldn't ask those who work for them to do things they themselves can't do.” 

Lois beamed at him and lifted her phone off her lap so she could display the recording app to Clark, then to him as she asked, “That sounds like a bit of a gibe at someone.”

“Perhaps it is,” Bruce practically purred. “Who knows?”

“Next question,” Lois continued without pause. “You seem to be settling into campus life alright, all things considered. Care to give us some of your thoughts so far?”

“The dorm itself is cramped, but I suppose some people could call it cozy.” Judging by Clark's small frown, he was one of those people. “I was never as much of a materialist as some other people, so I suppose it could be worse. The dining hall isn't terrible either, though you won't catch me saying that again after this, if only for the sake of the person who has cooked all my meals before now. It would break his heart to know I enjoyed eating chicken fingers and chili fries last night.” This time he caught Clark smiling as he scribbled something down.

Lois was fiddling with her hair, and Bruce took it as a sign of her disinterest in his answer. She chewed her lip for a minute, searching mentally for a segue, before she spoke again. “Well, since it seems you aren’t too picky with your facilities, what about your peers? Your classes start tomorrow, so I know you can’t give us as much insight as some of us might like,” she glanced at Clark, who merely shrugged. “Any initial thoughts on people you’ve met so far? Feel free to leave out names, of course.”

“Of course,” Bruce repeated in agreement. “Well, as you’ve said, classes have yet to begin so I can’t give you any sort of in depth analysis, but I can list of some first impressions, if you’d like.” Lois nodded at him to continue. “Thus far, my peers are . . . Driven. I suppose that would be the most encompassing word. Perhaps passionate might fit a little better, but that also sounds a bit too romantic, even if it is equally accurate. While everything else has been its own brand of overwhelming at times, the people I’ve met so far have been almost an anchor of sorts, a reminder of the sort of world I wish to create when my own schooling is over. They take a level of pride in their aspirations for the future and their hobbies that I envy. But they’re also the sort of people I can see myself pushing.”

“Pushing?” Lois asked. “How so?”

“They have the drive, the motivation, but I wonder if perhaps a few of them lack the proper, oh . . . What would the word be?” He snapped his fingers and pointed at Clark, “Ah! That’s right. Influence.” Clark tensed a little in his seat, but otherwise didn’t respond, his eyes fixed firmly on his notepad as he wrote something down. “The potential is there, but it hasn’t been unlocked to its full capacity. With the right influence, the right push, well . . . Let’s just say that I believe Iustitia holds the sort of people who will easily rise above the hold the aristocracy of old money has upon our world.”

Clark glanced up at him, and Bruce could read the odd mix of curiosity and low simmering anger in his expression without even having to try. He’d always thought wearing one’s heart on their sleeve to be a disadvantage, but he was getting the feeling Clark was letting him see exactly what he wanted to see. “ _You’re_ old money,” the other man reminded lowly.

“I am.” He shifted his own gaze to Lois, raising an eyebrow. “Is this part of the interview? Questions from the peanut gallery?” He meant it as an insult, but Clark acknowledged it in the same manner a duck acknowledges water in its feathers. Lois looked between them for a heartbeat, eyes narrowing at Clark who merely met her gaze unflinchingly, before she nodded. “Right then,” Bruce leaned forward, elbows on his knees again so he could feign nonchalance as he settled his chin in his hands. “Clark,” he said steadily, “you’re right. I am old money. Or I will be, once I fully inherit the Foundation and Wayne Enterprises. Right now I only have the estate, but I don’t think that’s what you’re getting at, are you.” It wasn’t a question, so Bruce left no room for Clark to answer. “I get where you’re coming from. This generation has done nothing but witness the horrors money and greed bring into our communities, our environment, and our government. But I can’t give you what you’re asking for. I can’t change that because I don’t have the power to.” He cut off the retort he could see rising in Clark’s eyes with a wave of his hand. “Not _yet_. Not _alone_.” Clearing his throat, he stood and made his way over to Lois’s chair so he could bend over and snatch her phone from her lap, lifting it towards his own face as he smirked, “So to answer your previous question, again, I’ve met some people who could benefit from the right sort of influence to push them to make waves around the world.” His fingers of his free hand came up to tap at his chin, “Does that sound too much like a threat? Or not enough of one?” He shrugged and pressed stop on the recording, “I suppose it doesn’t matter. But you can print that. All of it.”

As he made his way up to the front of the booth to collect Hal, he couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder to level a pointed look at Clark. It shouldn’t have shocked him as much as it did to find Clark already looking back, his expression more guarded than Bruce had seen it yet, save for that same spark of honest curiosity that brimmed in his eyes. Bruce turned away, humming a low note as he wondered how exactly one should go about accusing someone of hiding something. Especially since Clark himself had just done it so artfully.

At the very least, Clark was a lot smarter than he was letting on, and Bruce had already let him know he had puzzled that bit out. He shouldn’t just be a research assistant, he should be co-writing articles for _The Everyday_. There was a lot to read in to the way the other man tended to hunch in on himself as well, but Bruce wasn’t sure he was seeing anything in that habit other than what Clark wanted him to. So in the meantime, he might as well make good on his word and simply . . . Push. It was basic scientific method, after all. 

Push, create a catalyst, observe the reaction. Eventually, he had to reach a conclusion. The unfortunate part was that in order to do so, he’d need to foster the sort of environment that would allow him room in which to act. 

Hal was telling Diana some sort of story when he approached, one of the airplane fliers in his hand as he made it swoop and dive in what Bruce assumed was a retelling of an experience of his own. He jumped when Bruce settled a hand against his shoulder from behind. “You’re having fun,” he commented dryly. “Are you going to join?”

“The Journalism Club?” Hal made a face, clearly aghast at the very idea. “Hell no. I’ll pass around copies of the paper, but if you think I have anything else to contribute to this,” he laughed, “you’re wrong.”

Bruce frowned, “Would you take a bribe?”

Standing, Hal folded his arms over his chest and squinted at him, “Good lord. Are _you_ joining?” Almost immediately he tried to whip his head around to look pointedly behind him to where Lois and Clark were sitting and quietly going over Clark’s notes. Bruce however deftly caught his chin in his hand before he could do so. 

“Can you try not to be so obvious,” Bruce hissed.

Hal’s eyebrows shot up as he shook off Bruce’s hold with a swat of his forearm into his roommate’s own. “Me? I’m not the one joining a club to - to flirt!”

“Jealous?”

“Don’t be gross.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Bruce countered. “For all you know I could have a vested interest in journalism.”

“Or a vested interest in _journalists_ ,” Hal held up his hands in mock surrender as soon as he’d said it. “Kidding. Maybe. But seriously, dude, a club? _This_ club?”

“I’m not going to write any articles,” Bruce said. 

“Thank god, the clinical air you’d bring to the table would kill off what little readers the paper has,” Lois muttered as she approached. “And actually, no offense Bruce, I don’t want you in the club. But,” she amended before Bruce could protest, “I do need another research assistant for _The Everyday_. Someone who can get us that high society scoop full time rather than through sock-puppet emails. Plus, Clark is reckless.” Now that was interesting, Bruce thought. He would have never pegged Clark as reckless, especially not in comparison to people like Lois and Hal, who clearly lived their lives proudly under such a moniker. Clark, who had come to stand behind her like a shadow, seemed as uncomfortable with the description as Bruce expected him to be. “He needs someone to reign him in when he’s in the field.”

Bruce felt his eyebrows furrow, and he opened his mouth to ask something he wasn’t sure how to voice. Luckily, Hal, ever lacking in tact, did it for him.

“What the actual _fuck_ are you guys doing to get information?”

Even Diana looked interested now, her fliers abandoned half folded on the table as she turned to straddle her seat to give them her full attention. Clark was looking more and more nervous by the second, and Bruce felt something thrill through him as realization hit him like a sack of bricks. Lois had said Clark was the only person better at getting information than he was. She had specifically mentioned that he had somehow obtained hard evidence on the incident at the Gotham Aquarium that Bruce had only been able to confirm through word of mouth. 

“I’m in,” he said without thinking, grinning when Clark looked even more rattled by this than Hal’s outburst. 

“In on what?!” Hal all but shrieked, throwing his hands in the air. 

Diana folded her arms over the back of her chair, her mouth quirking up, “Breaking and entering,” she answered, her voice wine smooth, and Lois winked at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Initially this chapter was meant to end with the introduction of another character, but alas, I just couldn't make it mesh well enough without needing it to be a chapter all its own. So this one is a bit short (for me). Also I rewrote the entire interview scene about six times, which is why it's late despite the low word count. 
> 
> Anyways, thanks so much for all the reviews and kudos so far! They make me glad I've come back to the world of fanfiction and make me want to keep at it :)


	3. One Less Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More characters! More flirting! More angst!

Bruce hadn't been to an actual class since he was in boarding school, and that thought alone made him wake up in a cold sweat on Monday morning. It wasn't that he hated them, per say. In fact he found most aspects of them relaxing. Learning, the smell of books both new and worn, the staccato of pencils on paper and the clack of fingers on keyboards, it was all a familiar rhythm. Almost subconsciously, Bruce reached for the baseball tucked between his matress and the wall, thumbs already roving over the stitches. This too was a familiar rhythm. He inhaled long and deep and pressed the pad of his thumb over the place where the thread turned from neat red to repaired blue, and exhaled. College and grade school were nothing alike, he reasoned to himself. Unlike the classrooms of his youth, the students chose to be there. They would be focused on their studies, and as adults be above the petty grudges of competitive grading. Not to mention that he had specifically chosen Iustitia in order to avoid the sort of scuffles the age old argument of “ _my dad makes more money than your dad_ ” resulted in. He rolled the ball between his palms as he pulled up his schedule in his mind. His first class of three wasn't until 10:45.

Turning his head, he caught sight of Hal across the room sprawled out on his stomach, his comforter pooled around his waist and his chin resting on his pillow as he fiddled with his phone. He seemed equally disquieted, and barely glanced up when Bruce let himself fall back down into his pillows with a soft huff. 

“Want to beat the shit out of each other and then get breakfast?” Bruce asked, tossing the ball towards the ceiling with a flick of his wrist. 

Hal perked up, looking about ready to vibrate out of his skin. “Jesus Christ, yes. I was just about ready to run to the nearest airport and steal a plane.”

“Or we could do that,” Bruce offered.

“There's something really wrong with you,” Hal said as he propped himself up on his elbows so as to better level Bruce with a glare across the room. 

“Because I was absolutely serious?” Bruce drawled. “That's hypocritical, since you were serious about it as well.”

Hal pursed his lips. “Point,” he conceded. “Now let's go punch each other before we get ourselves on the FBI's watch list.”

~~~***~~~

He could ask how Lois and Clark had managed to get the paper printed so quickly when the interviews had literally been yesterday, but he didn't. He _should_. Instead, Bruce just sipped at his quite frankly disgusting dining hall coffee and peered at the pair of them over the top of that morning's headline. At the very least it was impressive, the bold title of _Iustita: An Ivy League Of Its Own_ was certainly eye catching. As was the picture beneath it of Bruce and Clark, their backs turned to the camera, and Diana perched backwards on her chair and facing the photographer (he assumed it was Lois) beneath the canopy of the booth the day before. He wasn't quite sure when she'd managed to sneak the candid without him noticing, and was mildly miffed to see that the logo of his jeans, branded with his own name on the hip, was visible to anyone with sharp enough eyes. Technically lots of people wore Wayne clothing. Just not at this school. Sighing, he flipped the top half of the paper over so he could get into the meat of the other two interviews besides his own. 

Diana's was . . . Well, interesting was the best word he could come up with that wasn't outright rude. Her majors were pretty standard, History and Political Science, and she talked very little about her thoughts on the campus in comparison to her home. In fact, he realized as he read through it again, she hadn't exactly mentioned her home at all save for once, and it was done so when she was talking about Lois. 

“My roommate is inquisitive, perhaps sometimes too much for her own good,” he read outloud, “But at the same time I admire her dedication and her loyalty, it reminds me of my home. Her convictions are strong, and her bonds with her friends even stronger. I hope someday I can be counted among those.”

Bruce glanced up from the article to see Lois stoically turning her face to the side, her chin in her hand to attempt to hide the flush of crimson he he could still see peeking out from between her fingers. Diana just looked up from her pancakes and gave him finger guns. 

He turned an accusing look to Hal, who vigorously shook his head as he laughed. “I didn't teach her that.”

“Yeah, no. That, among many things apparently, was my mistake,” Lois muttered against her palm. 

Having gleaned all he could from Diana's bit, Bruce moved on to Clark's interview. Almost immediately he made note about how pristine it was. The answers were typical, almost clinical in their wording at times. Rehearsed, he realized, his eyes narrowing at the ink and paper. He wondered if that was just a journalist thing, or if Clark had actually put enough forethought into his answers to seemingly mundane questions so many times before now that they sounded robotic, even on paper. He sighed and took another grimacing sip of his coffee. It wasn't really equitable of him to make such assumptions. Parts of it seemed genuine, even if the wording was a little odd. Clark mentioned he was from Kansas, and even through the stiff sentences he could tell that Clark was terribly fond of his hometown, lackluster as it seemed to Bruce. He spoke similarly of his family. It was the bits about his upcoming schooling that were the most odd, and it really stood out between the easy banter between him and Lois that interspersed the questions. 

“You didn't mention yesterday that you were studying Forensic Science as well,” Bruce spoke up, and Clark sat up in his seat, his eyes wide and his piece of toast hanging out of his mouth in a way that was much too reminiscent of an anime protagonist. Bruce covered a snort of amusement beneath a cough. “What does an aspiring journalist need with forensics?”

Clark finished off his toast in a few quick bites, clearly giving himself time to come up with a decent answer, Bruce thought darkly. “Uh, well, it's like you said yesterday. People at the top of the ladder should know about the stuff people near the bottom do for them. And the media, the news especially, is sort of the largest form of hierarchy in the social world. If I'm going to be reporting on crime I should probably know my way around a crime scene.”

Hal, who had been moving his food around on his plate and not eating much of anything, perked up a bit with interest. “I don't think the fuzz would appreciate you bumbling around an active investigation with your little notepad. No offense.”

“None taken?” 

Turning to Bruce now, Hal added, “Which begs another question. This interview,” he leaned over to tap the paper in Bruce's hands, who noted with a start that Hal had subtly succeeded in reading over his shoulder, “It says you're the heir to some non-profit and an entire company. And then it says you chose your majors because you thought it was a good idea to know as much as those working for you. Which makes sense for Mechanical Engineering, but what the hell does your company do that makes you need forensics?” 

It was an innocent question, especially considering that Hal had shown zero sign thus far that he knew anything about the public figure side of Bruce Wayne. Still, Bruce's stomach gave an uncomfortable twist, and he was grateful when his voice came out even, if a bit tight, when he answered, “Personal reasons.”

Hal looked as though he was about to voice another question, his open expression giving away his confusion before it suddenly twisted into pain as he all but leapt out of his chair with a sharp yelp. “Ow! Who the hell kicked me!?”

Bruce almost got whiplash with how quickly he turned his attention on the rest of the table. Diana's gaze was trained on her pancakes, the minute tilt of her head the only sign that she was still listening to the conversation. Lois had shrunk down in her seat, her own copy of her paper in her hands as she hid her face behind it. And Clark . . . Bruce sucked in a shaky inhale at the utter ferocity of his eyes that were studiously downcast at the phone in his hand, otherwise looking for all the world like he wasn't paying them any mind at all. It could have been any of them, and Bruce got the distinct feeling they were each playing it off as if they might all share equal blame. But he had no doubt in his mind who had lashed out under the table just now.

The only question was why?

Bruce reached up a hand to pull Hal back down into the seat next to him, a soft apology spilling from his lips if only because what had just happened wasn't fair, and he cast an admonishing glare at Clark to let him know he thought as much. Clark, to his surprise, didn't look even remotely cowed, and simply lifted his phone closer to his face, apparently suddenly too blind to read even with his glasses. “There's a, uh, a Wikipedia article, Hal,” Bruce said quietly, “if you google my name.” It was the only explanation he could give right now. He wanted to start his classes with a clear head, unmuddled by things he couldn't change. “There's also an article that has to do with it on _The Everyday_ , if you can link him, Lois?”

Lois jumped a bit as she was suddenly brought into the conversation again, squeaking out a harried, “Yep! Will do!” 

Bruce stood up from his chair, taking one last sip of his too-bitter coffee before he swooped around to the other side of the table to hook his fingers around Clark's elbow and haul him to his feet. “I think we have the same class coming up,” he said steadily, his fingers tightening slightly. Clark frowned at him. “Walk with me.” It wasn't a request. 

Clark rolled his eyes, but grabbed his backpack off the back of the chair and let Bruce all but drag him out of the dining hall. Once they were outside he tensed, the earlier lax air of his posture that allowed Bruce to whisk him away waning. But he didn't shake Bruce's hand off, and that above all made Bruce's words stick in his throat as they continued to walk away. 

“Your first class is an engineering one,” Clark said finally, breaking the thick silence. Bruce didn't ask how he knew that, and Clark didn't seem to expect him to respond as he inclined his head towards a building further out, past the dormitories. “That one, right? I'll walk you, if you still want to yell at me.”

“I'm not going to yell at you,” Bruce said, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth. He wasn't really the yelling type. Anymore, at least. Whether his anger about the subject at hand growing dimmer over the years was a good or bad thing, he still hadn't decided. Now it just sat like a cold stone in his chest, a heavy weight he couldn't shake. And he doesn't know what to say about it without sounding cold himself. Clinical, he realized, just like he'd accused Clark's interview of being earlier. It was a symptom of traumas and secrets, and the emotions behind them being long repressed. He brushed that thought aside for now, and tightened his fingers into the fabric of the blue flannel covering Clark's arm before letting his hand drop to his side. “I don't need a defender,” he said finally.

“I know.”

His surety caught Bruce off guard entirely, and he stopped walking as shock pulled his muscles to a taut standstill. Clark kept going, glancing back over his shoulder with a smirk that was unnervingly knowing. And, perhaps worse, was chased by a flash of fondness. Bruce shivered under it and forced his best glower to the surface of his features as he hurried to catch up. “What do you mean ‘you know?’ If you know then why did you do it?”

Clark just shrugged and used a hand to hitch his backpack a little higher on his shoulders. “Once,” he began, slow and low like whatever he was about to say struggled to come out of him, “I think I was nine, maybe ten. It was a few months after w-” He cut himself off abruptly, eyes sliding over to Bruce, who frowned as Clark shook his head to himself and mustered on. “I fell. From the hayloft in the barn furthest from the house. It was the only time I . . .” A nervous chuckle escaped him. “I'm pretty sturdy,” he said, and Bruce had the feeling that wasn't what he'd originally been about to say. “I don't get hurt often, so I'm still not sure what happened, but I broke my arm really badly. My dad wouldn't let my friend Pete back into the barn after he came to get them. They made him go home. At the time I thought they were trying to keep him from seeing what had happened. I mean, it was pretty gruesome.” He lifted his left arm up then, twisting it from side to side, and Bruce caught sight of the edges of thick white scar where his flannel was cuffed halfway up his forearm. “But when I got older, I realized they didn't want anyone else to see me in that moment of weakness.” 

His sleeve rode up a bit further as he extended the arm to the side, just briefly, for Bruce to see. The scar was jagged, like a bolt of lightning, and Bruce could tell without further clarification that it was where bone had torn through the skin. He looked away. “What does that have to do with you kicking Hal?”

Clark grinned, the expression still blindingly bright despite the shadow of the engineering building that fell over him as he twisted around to face Bruce and took two steps back, hands in his pockets. “I don't know,” he laughed, his eyes crinkling around the edges. “Why don't you tell me? This is the first time I've ever admitted what that scar is really from.”

Bruce paused, his hand on the door, and stared at him. That felt . . . Significant, heavy with the same weight as his own unsaid words at breakfast. Though he couldn't possibly fathom why. “And you're telling me this because . . .” He prompted, one eyebrow raising. 

“We have four days to figure out some semblance of trust,” Clark said casually, his gaze unfocused as he fiddled with the cuff of his shirt. “Lois and I have been working on a big story for months. If you want in, Friday night is your chance.” He shrugged, “Your life is very, well, public. You don't have many secrets I can't find out just by googling it. Me, however . . .” He smiled, slow and almost lazy, “Well, you're a smart guy. You already figured out that you can't find anything when you look me up.”

Bruce's blood ran cold. Clark knew. Clark _knew_ that Bruce thought he wasn't being genuine, and he had the fucking gall to tease him about it on top of it. 

Before he could think of something to say to that, one of Clark's hands came down to clap him lightly on the shoulder, his whole body leaning into Bruce's space as he tilted his head down to whisper, “But don't mistake me for a liar. I don't lie, and I _certainly_ have never lied to you.” Almost faster than Bruce could blink, Clark had stepped away, two fingers lifted to his forehead in a mock salute. “Anyways, just thought I'd share one of my ‘secrets,’” and of course he was the type to use air quotes, “to put you a little more at ease. Cause I'm not gonna take you with me on Friday unless you stop glaring at me every time I look away or turn my back.” 

With that he was off, jogging away towards the liberal arts building across the sidewalk. Bruce decided, for sanity's sake, that he really hated that guy.

~~~***~~~

His last class of the day was a 200 level chemistry course. Not exactly a strict requirement for a first year in Forensic Science, but Bruce figured it was a good thing to have a better grasp on than his AP classes in high school had given him. Especially since the science programs at Iustitia were the college's biggest draw, what with the majority of the professors under that banner also being funded in their research by the nearby S.T.A.R. Labs that had gone up in Metropolis a half dozen years ago. 

As he sat down, Bruce flipped the syllabus that had been left on the lab table right side up so he could could actually read it, eyes narrowing slightly as he recognized the name of the instructor. Huh. Where had he heard it before? Bruce tapped his pen against the table as other students began to file in. It must have been a research paper somewhere. Maybe one on a subject that Wayne Enterprises had taken enough interest in for him to do his own digging? 

Someone slammed into the room, startling half the students sitting down and making them jump in their seats. The door rattled in its frame as it swung closed again, and the person who had made such a sudden entrance turned a sullen glare at the jittery class as he skulked over towards the desk at the front. A chair was grabbed from behind a lab bench, and the sound of it grating across the floor as the young man dragged it to the corner of the desk did nothing to soothe any nerves in the room. Well, Bruce observed wryly, despite where the young man was now slumping into the chair, his backpack tossed onto the floor, that certainly wasn't the teacher. For one thing he was too young, younger than Bruce even, and although his broad shoulders and height had to put him at a similar build to Clark, the varsity jacket gave away that he was most likely still in high school. Beneath the shade of a baseball cap pulled low, his dark russet brown eyes all but bled into his equally rich skin as he settled a clearly bellicose scowl on the desk as if it had personally offended him.

The chair beside Bruce squeaked as it was pulled back, and he was broken out of his observations to see someone sliding into the seat. “Feel free to give me the boot if you were waiting for someone else to be your lab partner,” the blond said lightly as Bruce stared at him. “Cause there are still,” he twisted in his seat a bit, his blue eyes bright, “three other people here who will probably, no, almost definitely put up with me if you don't want to.” His tongue stuck out just a little bit between his teeth while he considered this. “Or, well, at least they have made themselves open to the idea by leaving half their lab benches vacant.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, “First of all, slow down. I can't answer you if you keep rolling on without pausing to breathe.” He sighed as the blond sucked in a very sarcastic, over dramatic breath. Apparently his college career was to be plagued with a plethora of these sorts of people. “Second, I don't care who my lab partner is so long as they already have a decent grasp on chemistry, because I'm not going to carry the grade for both of us for the lab portion of they don't know their foot from the periodic table.”

Practically bouncing in his seat now, the other man chirped, “Oh, so no worries then! I kinda got into this school with a full ride because I'm a bit of a wiz at this sort of stuff.” He made an odd, swooshing hand motion as he spoke, and Bruce pursed his lips, vetoing the very idea of trying to decipher that particular gesture. “Also, last chance to kick me out cause it's super not fair if I don't admit this but like,” his voice pitched slightly higher, “IkindaadmireyoualotandItotallypickedthisseatonpurpose.”

Bruce barely refrained from smacking his hand into his own face. Barely. He did however lift his hand to gently, _gently_ lay it over his eyes so as to conceal whatever unidentifiable mixture of emotions that mess brought out of him. “Slower,” he ground out. 

When he looked up again the blond had laid his hands together beneath his chin, his eyes on the ceiling as if only divine intervention was all that stood between him and a normal speed of conversation. “Okay so, this is gonna sound weird,” he said, and his voice was still too high with nervous energy for Bruce's liking, “but I kinda . . . Admire you? And I didn't know you were going to be in this class, or this school, swear to god, but when I came in just now and saw you sitting here I just had to sit next to you.” He heaved in a breath, this time seemingly genuinely in need for air, and then lowered his hands to his lap. “If that's too weird, there's still two more seats open I can take instead.”

“You admire me?” It wasn't meant to sound nearly as incredulous as it did, but that was certainly the tone in which the words escaped Bruce. It wasn't as if it was something he'd never been told. Businessmen and socialites alike, all older than him by a mile, had shaken his hand or laid a palm on his shoulder with similar sentiments before. But they weren't honest compliments, they were attempts to get into his back pocket for either his money or his status. And no such thing had ever been said by his school day peers. Except, he recalled with that cold burn of old animosity, in jest. 

The blond blinked as his words were parroted back to him. “Well, yeah.” He seemed flabbergasted that Bruce would find this anything but flattering. “You did a gala a few years ago, or the Wayne Foundation did, I guess, I don't know how deep that connection runs or anything. But anyways, you were there at the very least. A bunch of foster kids were invited, and you made a big speech to commemorate the opening of a new branch of the Foundation the gala was being held to fundraise. The C.V.O.V.C.” 

Childhood Victims Of Violent Crimes. Bruce's hand clenched into a fist on the desk, his nails digging into his palm. “You were at that gala?”

A shaky laugh escaped the other man. “Hah. Yeah. Anyways, your speech that night was great. Provide a future and all that for those who had their stability robbed from them, give them the means to fight for that future as a form of vengeance against the darkness of the world. A plus stuff.” He spread his arms a bit to encompass the classroom. “So Forensic Science Major here I come! I mean, that's obviously not the only thing that got me here, but it was pretty dang inspiring. Helped me work through some shit, at the very least.”

The project of the C.V.O.V.C. had been a long shot when he envisioned it, a dart thrown in the dark at a board of directors that didn't care for the whims of a teenage heir. The plan for it had been the first thing Bruce drew up with his Business degree under his belt at eighteen, and it had been so thorough that only a total fool would say no. Especially after Bruce had offered himself up as a marketing ploy to incentivise attendance to the gala. That was all the board ever thought he was good for anyways, his name and the media frenzy it always dragged up. “Well,” he said evenly, “I suppose I'm glad something good came out of that disaster of a party.”

“Whoops, that's right! Didn't you deck a member of your own board of directors?” 

“There was no photographic evidence,” Bruce deadpanned, “so I confess to nothing.” 

“No biggie, word of mouth is about as useful these days as a cup full of holes. Besides, you did start a new branch of the Foundation that night, so that's good!”

A branch that was still struggling, Bruce thought grimly, because half the board agreed with the man he'd tried to practically strangle. He still wasn't sure what he regretted more; not getting to the funding goal he wanted, or not actually putting a man who accused him of profiting off of his parents’ deaths in the hospital. Deciding on the former, he whispered, “We only got funding for three hundred kids a year to get therapy and extracurricular help. That's less than _half_ of what the starting target goal was.”

“Well,” the blond grinned, “That's still three hundred more kids that are probably a lot better off than they used to be. I mean, I'm not gonna go so far as to say we're adjusted because haha, Forensic Science Major and all! But my therapist stopped calling it revenge and started calling it ‘constructive coping,’ so that's a plus in my book!” His eyes narrowed suddenly in thought. “Wait, why are you here in a chemistry class? Are you,” he inhaled sharply, the sound cutting off in a choked wheeze as he clamped his hands over his mouth, blue eyes wide.

“Yes,” Bruce admitted reluctantly, “I suppose I'm ‘constructive coping,’ too.”

“Yeeeeessss!” his seatmate hissed out gleefully between his fingers. “Oh, I can see the future headlines now. _Bruce Wayne and Barry Allen_ , that's me by the way, _World's Greatest Detectives_!” 

“Reasonably, we can't both be the world's greatest.”

“Reasonably,” Barry quipped back, “You're going to have to beat me at, uh, detective-ing to make that kind of stipulation.”

Someone at the front of the room clapped their hands together for attention, and the low din of students talking ground to an abrupt halt. Barry stiffened in his seat as he turned to face forwards, his back ramrod straight, and Bruce understood why as he caught sight of their apparent professor. It hadn't been a research article he had recognized the name from, it had been gossip he'd heard at a party when he was young, words whispered behind turned backs and closed doors. It was no wonder he couldn't place the name when it was typeset in front of him, he had vehemently refused to read anything by the man after his parents stopped selling him tech from their company after the rumors became too much to overlook. 

From his memories, Silas Stone had never been what one would call a kind man, even in his youth. His every move had always been calculated, every word carefully considered. A little more than a dozen years ago he'd been an avid purveyor of as much of the latest tech from around the world as he could get his hands on. Even with his odd mannerisms and his clear disinterest in social niceties, he'd gotten along well with the upper elites simply because of the technological advancements he was making. Or at least he had until his wife started bringing his son along to the engagements they attended. 

Bruce's gaze shifted to the dark eyed teen slumped in the chair by the desk, dread settling into the pit of his stomach. At just two years old he'd been too well spoken, too analytical, too sharp. Genetic experimentation, even a whisper of it, was more than enough to get someone disinvited from any of the same social circles the Waynes had dabbled in. 

Dark eyes flicked up to meet Bruce's gaze head on, unflinching, and he tried to remember if they had always looked so reticent.

“That's Victor,” Barry murmured out of the side of his mouth. “He's the quarterback for the Titans. They have a crazy huge stadium for a high school team.”

Bruce had been eight, and the memories were overshadowed by the horrors of what came not too much later. He could recall a boy with the body of a toddler, but the verbal fluency of a teenager. His eyes had been brighter, inquisitive. 

Victor looked away, his shoulders hunching, whatever spark that had been in his gaze just then fading to unmistakable resignation. 

Bruce toyed with the corner of the syllabus on the table in front of him as he finally took in the details written on it, specifically the logo for S.T.A.R. Labs stamped into the top corner. He'd never bothered to keep tabs on someone like Silas, he'd been disgraced for close to a decade during Bruce's youth, unable to regain any traction in his field beneath the weight of the gossip that had only increased after his wife's death. But apparently that hadn't lasted, not if S.T.A.R. Labs had taken him under their wing. 

The class was over before he even noticed, his spiral full of notes he didn't remember taking as his mind had wandered. Barry was nudging him as the rest of the students milled about gathering their things. He closed his notebook over a jotted list of google searches to dig through when he got back to the dorm. “Where are you headed?” He asked, mildly relieved when Barry stopped bouncing on his heels long enough to listen. “I'll walk you, and you can tell me what that lesson was actually about.”

Barry laughed, “Beats me. I don't know why anyone would try and do a full lesson on the first day. Everyone else basically just threw the syllabus out and left.”

“Fantastic,” Bruce sighed. “Between the two of us, we'll have the best lab results in the class.” 

“You're vastly underestimating the power of deadlines and working under pressure,” Barry soothed, steering Bruce towards the door. “Also Mountain Dew.”

“No one should _ever_ give you Mountain Dew,” Bruce expressed with utter vehemence. “And whoever has been should be locked away.”

“Well my roommate is taking me to the student center after this. They have Taco Bell there, which means Baja Blast. You can fight him about it, I guess. Or you can come with us.” He waved over Bruce's shoulder to someone down the hall as he said this, and Bruce braced himself for what sort of fresh horror he was about to meet.

Turning to come face to face with an overly cheery Clark Kent was pretty spot on with how he'd expected this day to cumulate. 

“You're the devil,” he said before he could stop himself, irritated when Clark just grinned even wider. “What are you even doing here?”

Clark pushed off from the wall where he'd been leaning, “Picking up Barry,” he said. “Didn't he just say that?” He bent down to snag his backpack off the floor of the hallway, and Bruce narrowed his eyes as he shouldered it. 

“You've been here awhile,” he observed. Clark merely lifted an eyebrow, not making an effort to refute it. “Why?”

Clark smiled, but this time his eyes didn't crinkle at the corners, and Bruce watched mutely as the other man's focus minutely shifted, just for a second, towards where Silas and Victor Stone were exiting the classroom. It was deliberate, Bruce realized with a thrill, a silent communication that Clark was letting him in on. Of course the team behind _The Everyday_ would take an interest in someone with as muddied a history as Silas Stone, especially since he seemed to have taken up root in what was practically their backyard. 

“Well,” he drawled, “I suppose I should come with you to dinner after all, Barry. It seems Clark and I have some information to exchange.”

~~~***~~~

“What did you call this again?” Bruce asked as he stared into the teal depths of his obnoxiously large beverage cup.

“Baja Blast,” Barry practically moaned, which was almost as disturbing as the color of the drink in question. “It's sinfully good, Right?”

Bruce took another sip. “Sin, yes,” he decided. “Good? No.”

“You say that, and you've made the same disgusted face every time you've had a swig of it,” Clark observed from across the table, “yet you _keep drinking it_.”

“It's the pavlovian effect of having a cup in front of me,” Bruce dismissed, pulling his notebook out from under the table. “Anyways, Clark, back to business.”

Clark pointedly stuffed the rest of the taquito he was holding in his mouth. 

Bruce rolled his eyes, “Despite the absurd pile of entrées you insisted on purchasing, eventually you will finish eating them all and have to talk to me.” Calling it absurd wasn't even a slight exaggeration, Bruce conceded as he eyed the tray of food Clark had in front of him, but that was a detail to be mulled over more at a later date. 

“Bold of you to assume I won't just go back for more,” Clark chuckled once he'd finished chewing. At least he was polite enough for that, Bruce thought. 

“Bold of you to assume I'm not a patient man,” he countered. 

Clark shook his head, and Bruce flushed as a trace of that odd, knowing fondness he'd glimpsed that morning surfaced in his dark blue eyes for the briefest moment. “For all you know I have an inhuman metabolism,” the other man said lightly. “You could be waiting around all night.” He took a long drag of his own drink, just water, Bruce had noted earlier. “Besides, I really don't think we should be talking about this in front of Barry.”

At this Bruce leaned back in his chair, his arms folding over his chest, eyebrows climbing towards his hairline. “Oh? See, here I was under the impression Barry should most definitely be in on this, seeing as his scholarship comes directly from S.T.A.R. Labs itself.” Clark's eyes widened. “Gotta follow up on every lead, Kent,” he smirked.

“In front of my _burritos_ ,” Barry whispered. 

“I don't know what meme that is, but stop,” Bruce ordered. Wisely, Barry didn't elaborate, and Clark looked just as bemused by the remark as Bruce felt. Moving on, he pulled out his phone to show off a series of screenshots, “I had Lois forward these to me while you two were ordering. Barry did high school work study with S.T.A.R. Labs in Central City for two years, and then again this last summer with the branch right here in Metropolis.” He glanced over at the blond in question, who thankfully looked impressed rather than annoyed that Bruce had so casually obtained such information. “That's how you knew who Victor was earlier, wasn't it? You've met him before.”

Barry frowned, “‘Met’ is a strong word. I've seen him around, but Doctor Stone never bothered to introduce him to me. His name is in the papers a lot though, a lot of college scouts have their eye on him already. I put two and two together.”

Bruce hummed thoughtfully under his breath. “But this scoop you have, Clark, it's not about Victor, is it. That gossip never really left the elite rings it started in when they couldn't present any physical evidence to back it.” He steepled his fingers together under his chin, “So why _do_ you have your eye on Silas Stone?” 

“This really isn't a Taco Bell type of discussion,” Clark said lowly. “But if you must know right this second, S.T.A.R. Labs has recently made some business dealings I'm not particularly fond of. They've leant out a handful of their scientists to people they shouldn't have, and two years ago, Stone was one of them. You can do your own digging from there, I think.”

“I can,” Bruce agreed readily. “Assuming the payoff is my inclusion in Friday's escapades.”

“Are you guys spies?” Barry asked around his burrito. “Because if you are I can totes write up a report for you on everything I know about Doctor Stone. If that helps, of course.”

“That would help,” Clark assured, pointedly neither confirming or denying the assumption that was made. He pushed away from the table, rounding to their side with his cup in one hand to scoop of Barry's empty one in his other. Pausing next to Bruce's chair, he bent down until Bruce deigned to meet his eyes. “I'm not taking you with me until you can prove that you trust me,” he murmured. 

“And how exactly am I supposed to do that?” Bruce asked. 

Clark, infuriating as ever, shrugged. “I don't know. What's the saying? The one about not trusting people as far as you can throw them? Do that.”

“Throw you?” Bruce asked, incredulous.

“Yeah. You and Hal spar again on Wednesday, right? Toss me around the mat a bit. Maybe it'll help.”

Bruce drummed his fingers on the tabletop, an eyebrow arching. “Alright. Just remember that you asked for it,” he drawled, his lips quirking around the words. 

“ _In front of my burritos_!” Barry muttered again. Bruce still didn't want to know what that meant. 

~~~***~~~

Hal wasn't there when Bruce finally made his way back to the dorm, and it looked like he hadn't been there all day. His bed was still in the same state of disarray he'd left it in that morning when they went to breakfast, and his laptop absent from its place on the desk. Bruce brushed off the flare of irritating concern that made its home in his chest and flopped down onto his own bed with his notebook already open. 

There was a lot to look into if Clark was really investigating Silas Stone, and even more so if he was digging into S.T.A.R. Labs as a whole. He ground his heels into his eyes with a sigh, suddenly feeling completely exhausted by the day behind him. Flipping the notebook closed again, he tucked it between the matress and the wall next to his baseball. It was no use trying to do hard research when his brain was busy with everything else that had happened. He could make headway on it between classes tomorrow if he had the time. 

Before he could take out his phone to check on today's headline for _The Everyday_ , the door clicked open again. Bruce rolled over onto his side, back to the wall as he watched Hal shuffle his way inside with his arms full of DVDs, his laptop held rather precariously against his side. His eyes lit up for a heartbeat when he saw Bruce before they quickly shuttered again, his lips pressed tightly together as he turned away to dump the DVDs on his bed. Hal didn't pay him any attention as he shrugged out of his bomber jacket, his shoulders tense while he shifted through the movies in utter silence for a few minutes. 

“How did your classes go?” Bruce asked, suddenly desperate to defuse whatever situation this was turning into. 

Hal didn't answer. Instead, he turned around with two movies in hand. “ _The Room_ , or _Megashark Versus Giant Octopus_?” 

Bruce extended a hand for the DVDs, and Hal obligingly gave them to him to examine. “These both look terrible,” he remarked, flipping them over to read the backs. “Where did you get them?”

“The library. Ever heard of it?”

“Ha ha,” Bruce returned. “Seriously though? Why does a campus library have crap like this?” 

Hal glowered, pointing a finger at him, “Okay, first off, films like these aren't crap, they're _art_. Second, for that you get to suffer through both.” Bruce startled as Hal climbed up onto his bed beside him, laptop held aloft with a command of “Budge over, moneybags,” before he reached over him to flick off the lightswitch. The movies were swiped back and tossed to the end of the bed as he pried open his laptop. 

Settling in on his side again, his head propped up with a hand, Bruce watched as Hal popped one of the disks in and then sat back against the pillows. When the movie started, the shark one Bruce noted with distaste, Hal pulled his knees up to his chest, his arms wrapping stiffly around them. Well, if he was going to be weird about it, Bruce decided, there was nothing much to do other than play along. Even if it meant sitting through a terrible movie. 

Alfred had always told him that patience was a virtue. Whether or not Bruce chose to believe that on any given day was a total coin toss, but that was beside the point. Today, however, thirty minutes in to a bunch of scientists talking about giant sea life instead of showing it, his patience paid off.

“I'm sorry,” Hal mumbled into his knees, his eyes trained resolutely on the movie. “About this morning,” he clarified. 

Oh. Bruce held his breath, unsure of what to say. 

“Sometimes I just open my big dumb mouth without thinking,” Hal went on. “And I, of all people, really should know better.” There was something there, unspoken, that made Bruce wish he couldn't see Hal's eyes in the light from the laptop screen. _Grief_ , his mind unhelpfully supplied. And he was abruptly overwhelmed with the knowledge that the only thing worse than past agonies resurfacing was the communion of finding that they were shared. 

“Hal,” he spoke softly in the darkness between them, “I was . . . Happy that you didn't know.” Hal glanced at him, and Bruce could tell he was frowning even though he couldn't see his mouth behind his knees. “It made me feel human for awhile.”

“You are human,” Hal whispered, so quickly and so harshly that it stilled the protests on the tip of Bruce's tongue. “Who the fuck told you otherwise?” 

The true answer to that was too bitter and self-loathing to voice aloud. The silence, however, was perhaps an almost more telling answer. 

Hal's eyes narrowed, flicking away to focus on the screen again. “Well, you're at least as human as I am,” he relented.

Bruce huffed out a breath of a laugh, and missed the way Hal's eyes widened when he turned away to cover it. “That's not much of a compliment.”

“Hey. Shut up.” 

But Hal looked pleased when he turned back to the movie, and that was enough, Bruce thought.

It was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was a drinking Baja Blast out of a can as I wrote this? Maybe. 
> 
> Plot stuff is finally taking off, but there's still one more main character to introduce before we really get this ball rolling. Even so, I'm excited enough about what's already been revealed that I was able to churn outthis chapter in record time (considering that I almost only have time to work on this during slow moments in my work shifts). 
> 
> Also I realized I forgot to mention earlier that chapter titles for this fic so far have been taken from song titles or lyrics on the playlist I listen to when brainstorming scenes for this. And this song in particular, which is One Less Day by Rob Thomas, was actually the song that inspired this fic in the first place, so that's worth mentioning. 
> 
> As always, I love reading everyone's comments! Thanks so much for reading!


	4. From Far Across A Yellow Field

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has secrets. Some of them are potential landmines, some are too personal to be shared, and others are so unexpected Bruce can't help but laugh.

A copy of _The Daily Planet_ was thrown into his chest the second Bruce got to their table at the dining hall on Tuesday morning. “I could have been holding food,” he protested as he set down his coffee on the table and sat in the chair Hal pushed out for him with his foot to unroll the newspaper. His eyes caught the headline immediately, and he folded the paper over to raise an eyebrow at Lois across the table, where she was gleefully holding her own copy. “Huh. That was a quick retaliation. It's barely been twenty-four hours.”

Lois practically preened, “I told you he'd hate it. And for the sake of making absolutely sure that he would hate it, I made sure to at him on Twitter when I crossposted the article to _The Everyday_.”

Regardless, it was a rather quick retaliation, Bruce thought as he scanned the headline again. “ _Lexcorp Moves Forward With Plans To Open Exclusive Graduate School_ ,” he read aloud as Clark slid into the seat on his other side, a tray of waffles balanced in hand. “to quote, ‘As of late, LexCorp has found many of its prospective employees severely lacking. In order to ensure the best possible future for the company, we have made plans to open a graduate school that will feed directly into our workforce.’ Well, he's not exactly saying he won't hire from anywhere else but-”

“But anyone with eyes can see that's what's being implied,” Clark interrupted, brandishing a fork at the paper. “Iustitia grads normally feed directly into the Metropolis and nearby suburbs workforce, but Luthor has always been gross about his hiring process and who he eventually lets into his ranks, _especially_ his inner circle in the upper levels of the company. He hasn't taken an Iustitia grad, or anyone else for that matter, that didn't come from either money or extreme influence since he took over from his father.” His foot tapped lightly against Bruce's under the table. “Or at least he hasn't on record.”

Silas, Bruce realized with displeasure. He should have guessed, what with Lois's fixation on riling Lex Luthor up with the interview in the first place. Casually, he leaned back and passed the paper to Clark for further inspection and took a sip of his coffee. “It's for the best,” he said over the lip of his cup, “The less Lex has his claws in this campus, the better.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Lois agreed gleefully. “Knowing you're here, he definitely won't completely turn a blind eye.” Bruce shrugged apologetically. “But,” she went on, “he will distance himself from any other connections he has as long as you're here. Which means anything we _happen to acquire_? I think reports of that might fall on deaf ears, don't you?”

Bruce was impressed, he really was. Lois, and probably Clark as well, had planned whatever they were up to so thoroughly that it seemed like everything they had done since arriving on campus a few days ago was just another cog in their grand design. He wondered how long they'd been working on this story to be so thorough, so utterly efficient that Bruce had let himself be swept up in it as a pawn rather than a main player. Huffing in mild annoyance at the thought, he pulled out his phone and sent out a quick text. He wasn't going to get much of anywhere without more information, and there was no point in trying to do his own research if he didn't at least try the most primary source available. 

Across the table, Lois pulled out her phone and arched an eyebrow before tapping at the screen. 

_Bring wine. Red._

Well, at least she had taste. 

~~~***~~~

Turre Custodum Usque had a student lounge on every other floor. It was also a laundry room, but hey, at least they tried. In Bruce's opinion the low and constant hum of the machines made it all the better, as it thoroughly covered up any sounds of conversation that might have otherwise been heard from either the hallway or the adjacent dormitories. He could easily see why Lois had chosen this as a meeting place rather than one of their rooms or the dining hall. 

“Oh, Bruce, you shouldn't have!” she cooed when he set down the paper bag of takeaway sushi and a bottle of red wine in front of her that evening. “I mean, really, you shouldn't have. I don't have a whole lot of information to offer you.” Regardless, she was already digging into the bag with gusto while Bruce produced two paper cups from the pockets of his blazer and began pouring out the wine. “You should have brought those red solo cups,” Lois observed, her mouth already full of a piece of unagi roll, “then you'd really be living that college life.”

“If you ever catch me drinking from one of those, you have my permission to kill me,” Bruce said dryly. He took the lounger across from her and popped apart a pair of chopsticks for himself. They ate in silence for a few minutes, their only conversation a series of brief hums of appreciation for different pieces and gestures with their chopsticks for the other to try certain ones. 

“Where do you wanna start?” She asked eventually. 

“Is it too forward if I want to ask about Clark directly? You two are close, after all.”

Lois snorted, an almost wry sound to Bruce's ears. “I suppose. But that boy seems to have more secrets than Area 51, and I only know what he wants me to know. I highly doubt I can tell you much of anything you haven't already guessed.” She set her chopsticks down in one of the now nearly empty containers. “I can tell you about the case, though. In fact, I think he wants me to.”

That threw Bruce off guard. “Why?”

Shrugging, she swirled her wine around in her cup in sarcastic mimicry of someone at a high end tasting. “He trusts you. He asked you to do your own sleuthing, right? If he didn't think you would come straight to me, he's an idiot.”

“Well, he's definitely not that,” Bruce sighed. “So you're probably right.” He pushed what was left of the food aside and replaced it with a small notebook, flipping it open to the first blank page.”

“Look at you, little journalist.”

“Detective,” Bruce corrected sourly. “Do you want me to start with what I already know, or do you want to just jump right in at the beginning.”

Lois frowned, her eyebrows furrowing as she considered the options. “I suppose the beginning. Otherwise it'll be even more of a mess to unravel than it already is.” She leaned forward and Bruce mirrored her over the table when she started to speak, her voice low. “There was a storage facility in a little town called Smallville, Clark's hometown, that suddenly burned down three years ago. Not too unusual, except that six months before that, LexCorp purchased the entire parent company.”

That would have only been barely a year after Lex was even of age to run his business. Bruce steepled his hands under his chin, his interest piqued. “Normally I'd say it was insurance fraud, especially since Lex has a track record of similarly suspicious incidents. But Clark doesn't seem like the type to be gung ho about a mere insurance scandal. Was this the only facility that got torched?”

“Yes. As far as the police reports go the cause was some sort of faulty wiring mixed with some illegally stored chemicals in one of the units. Cut and dry, Luthor gets some cash. But here's the thing. The chemical that was used, whatever it was, caused the place to light up so hot and so fast that when people came around the next day to try and collect what was left, there was nothing to recover. Not a single thing in two dozen storage units hadn't been turned to ash. Get Clark to show you the picture of the melted bike when you can, it's absolutely insane.” She shook her head and puffed out an audible breath through her nose. “That's overkill for a little insurance payout, especially with the kind of money Luthor already has lining his pockets.”

Bruce nodded and finished his notes with a flourish of his pen. “It wasn't arson, it was a robbery.” By the tilt of Lois's head he knew his hunch was correct. “Something was in one of those units that Lex wanted to get his hands on, but couldn't justify seizing outright because then everyone else would know what he had. The only question is, what? No, wait . . .” He scratched something out in the notepad. “Not what . . . If Silas is involved, it's probably some sort of tech. Does Smallville have any scientists? Relatives of? Someone who might have stored something they made that the rest of the world wasn't supposed to know about yet?”

Lois's phone pinged and she spared it a glance. “Clark has a dossier of everyone who rented one of the units when it burned down. I'll forward it to you to look over, but I doubt you'll find something he hasn't.” She held up a finger before he could open his mouth. “No, I didn't tell him we were meeting, he's just that good. He also says to just give you his number, and his words, not mine, ‘he's stubborn and still hasn't asked me for it,’ and then he included a winking emoticon.”

With a roll of his eyes, Bruce fished his phone out his pocket and handed it to her. “It's not like he asked me for mine either.”

“I know. You're both idiots.” She entered Clark's details in and handed it back to him. “Is that enough to start with? Cause I actually don't know much else. Clark only came to me with the case a couple of months ago, and we were completely out of leads until he found some paperwork on Luthor outsourcing some research to a handful of guys at S.T.A.R. Labs. And you know how that guy is with sharing.”

“He only does so if he's exhausted all other options,” Bruce filled in. “Yeah, I remember.”

All in all, the dinner was about as fruitful as he had expected it to be. At least now he had solid ground to start on before Friday. Assuming Clark would agree to take him along on Friday, that is.

~~~***~~~

Not yet bright but so very early on Wednesday morning, Clark fucking Kent showed up at Bruce's door. Well, technically he must have, but Bruce didn't remember that. All he remembered was Hal shaking him awake and gesturing to a beaming Clark between their beds with an exclamation of, “Your . . . _This_ is here.”

Bruce cracked open an eye, scowling at Clark, before letting his head fall face first back into his pillows. “That's not mine.”

“Aw, and here I thought you were going to throw me around today,” Clark teased.

“I can throw you out of the room,” Bruce offered darkly. 

There was the distinct sound of cardboard cracking, only just barely drowned out by Hal muttering, “I don't care if this coffee isn't for me, it's mine now.” 

Bruce sat up. Coffee? He hadn't smelled any coffee when Clark came in. A cardboard drink carrier was lowered into his field of vision as he rubbed the haze sleep from his eyes, and he grimaced at the sight of two frappuccinos covered in whip cream. “This is an abomination,” he muttered, “not coffee.”

Clark, taking it in stride as always, just pointed at the frappuccinos and said brightly, “This one is vanilla, and this one is chocolate. Hal already took the caramel one, sorry.”

Rolling his eyes, Bruce took the chocolate one. “Chocolate,” he explained when Clark curiously cocked his head, “because it's rich, like me. You seem like the vanilla type anyways.”

Hal, halfway to the bathroom to change, choked on his frappe. “Okay, new rule,” he sputtered, wiping a hand across his mouth and brandishing the drink at them, straw outwards, “none of that shit before seven in the morning.”

“None of what?” Clark asked innocently. Whether it was faux innocence or not, Bruce couldn't quite tell, and he leveled Hal with an unamused look of his own as he pushed off the edge of his matress. 

“ _You know what_ ,” Hal hissed, and slammed the bathroom door closed. 

Rounding the bed to his desk, Bruce motioned for Clark to follow. His new notepad, now filled with the info Lois had given him along with his own research, lay open on the surface. Let me know if any of this is new information,” he murmured with a tap of his finger to the paper before he turned away towards his closet. 

Clark was dressed in a t-shirt and basketball shorts, a far cry from Bruce's own typical gym attire, but to his credit it had the likely desired effect of showing that Clark was, in fact, very fit. “Did you play football in high school?” Bruce asked as he sorted through a dwindling collection of clean, black jogger pants. Sparring with Hal every other day was wrecking hell on his wardrobe. Especially when he still didn't know how to do laundry. Perhaps he would just buy new clothes at the end of the week if Hal forgot to take the time to teach him before he ran out. 

Clark glanced up from where he'd perched on the edge of the desk with Bruce's notes in hand. “No. Why?”

“You look like you did.”

To his surprise, the tips of Clark's ears went a little pink. “Oh. It's actually all from working on the farm. Plowing fields, baling hay, stuff like that.”

“Lifting entire cows?” The look Clark gave him over his shoulder, a mixture of alarm and embarrassment, compelled a soft laugh out of him. 

“I pulled a neighbor's calf out of a ditch once,” Clark joked, seeming to get ahold of himself. “Why, do these guns look like they could lift livestock?” 

He flexed, and Bruce snorted, “I wouldn't know. I don't think I've ever seen a real cow in my life.”

Clark looked appalled, “They're not unicorns, Bruce.”

“They might as well be in Gotham.”

The chuckle that Clark let out immediately set his senses on alert. It wasn't real, something about it wasn't right. His clothes folded over his arm, he swiveled where he stood to try and glimpse Clark's expression for further insight, but was dismayed to find that he had his back to him again as he flipped through the notepad. “So you've never been out to the countryside?” the Clark inquired, something strained still lingering beneath the question.

Bruce frowned, “No,” Clark's shoulders slumped, "I have.” He moved to lean against the desk beside him, angling his upper body towards the other man so that he could see his face. “I don't remember any cows, though.”

“What do you remember?” Something about the way those words were uttered, so soft and so earnest, plucked painfully at a deep, forgotten recess in Bruce's chest. The notepad had been set aside, Clark's hand resting palm down on the surface of the desk between them as he waited for an answer. 

Every atom in Bruce urged him to glance at the baseball tucked away behind his matress, but he forced his eyes to stay on Clark's. “I went through four boarding schools in two years. The last one of those failed institutions insisted that my guardian come pick me up immediately, rather than let me fly home.”

“You were a hellion, weren't you,” Clark smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. 

“Looking back, yes. At the time I thought my anger was justified,” Bruce admitted. “Alfred came to get me, but the car he chose to do so with was a bit too outdated to be any good on cross country roadtrips. We broke down somewhere along the way, surrounded by nothing but endless fields and quaint little farmhouses.”

There was more to it than that, of course there was, but the words stilled in Bruce's throat. For so long he'd held that single day in such high regard, each second of it painted in vivid colors in his memory, a lullaby to soothe away the darkest nights. Abruptly, he found himself unwilling to give it away so simply.

_The sound of a baseball whizzing past him, the cool wood of the bat against his palms and exasperated blue eyes under the shade of a baseball cap._

_Laughter, dirt on the knees of his good pants and the back of his best white button-up._

_The stars, a thousand tiny sparks of light, stretching on and on as if all they could see was the sky, for forever. Blue eyes, always blue, so terribly fond after so short a time as constellations were pointed out high above the world that suddenly seemed to be spinning too fast._

_A baseball, restitched after it had finally been hit and subsequently broken, pressed into his hands over the slats of a closing gate, the clack of it shutting feeling like the sharp split between night and day._

“I remember the stars,” he said instead, because it was true, and it was the only thing he could say without feeling like he was cutting himself open and handing off his own, still beating heart. “So many of them, taking up the whole sky. I always wished Gotham had stars like that.”

“Me too,” Clark whispered, his voice laced with a note of sorrow that Bruce couldn't make sense of. 

Bruce pushed away from the desk, the air suddenly too thick with unsaid things to breathe properly. “Hal! Hurry up!” He called, passing by Clark to bang a fist on the bathroom door. 

The door cracked open, “Looking this good takes time,” Hal sniffed. 

“If you gel your hair _before_ we go to the gym and I get it all over my arms _again_ , I won't be responsible for my actions,” Bruce warned.

Hal stuck his tongue out at him through the gap between the door and the frame. “ _Fine_. But in return for my generosity in giving up the potential of meeting hot babes, you have to teach me that stupid flip move you always pull.”

Bruce turned to raise an eyebrow at Clark. “Oh, go ahead,” Clark grinned, “I learn better by watching anyways. I'll let you know when I want to cut in.”

~~~***~~~

“You always react too much with your upper body,” Bruce said as he stood over Hal where the other lay flat on his back across the mat, furious and winded for the sixth time in a matter of minutes. “You won't be able to knock me off my feet that way, let alone get me onto my back.”

Hal's chest heaved when he got to his feet, but he nodded. “Again.”

Bruce paced away, hands at his sides as he outlined what his sparring partner needed to do to best him. “Your dominant hand needs to grab my arm, your other should come around to my back so as to solidify your grip. Bend your knees and carry the weight between your legs and your center, or you'll unbalance yourself. Then twist, and throw me down. Ready?”

“As I'll ever be,” Hal huffed. He raised his hands, his fingers curling inwards like claws as he braced himself. 

Off on the sidelines, Clark reclined back on the mat, and when Bruce first glanced over at him he seemed almost disinterested, his posture too loose to be anything but. If it wasn't for the way his eyes shifted between the two of them, clearly analyzing every second, Bruce would think he hadn't been serious about sparring with him. Yet he was definitely watching, his gaze intense beneath hooded eyes, his attentiveness, like many things, bundled up beneath his lax demeanor. 

Bruce charged at Hal without warning, earning a startled yelp for his efforts when he tapped his fist against the other man's ribs. Hands scrambled to grab him where he'd instructed, and then he was on the floor, staring up at the ceiling of the gym as Hal collapsed onto shaking knees next to him. “You're fucking heavy!” The brunette snapped. “What the hell are you eating?”

“Solid bricks,” Bruce deadpanned. “Go do some squats, Hal.”

“I hate squats,” Hal muttered as he stood. He tapped Clark on the shoulder as he passed, “I guess you're in. Good fucking luck, he's in a mood.”

“I'm not ‘in a mood,’” Bruce called after him, “I'm full of too much sugar from that sorry excuse for coffee this morning, and I'm trying to work off the calories.” He got to his feet and motioned for Clark to join him.

Eager, Clark kicked off his shoes and practically sprinted onto the mat. “Do you want me to attack or defend?”

Bruce chewed on his lip, considering. “Defend,” he settled on, “This is supposed to show me I can trust you, right? If you can't hold me off,” he narrowed his eyes, “or if you _pretend_ you can't, we're done.”

Clark tensed, and Bruce watched with curiosity as his fingers clenched once, twice at his sides. “Bruce . . .”

“Clark,” Bruce returned, challenging. “If you can't at least try and actually fight me, I can't trust you.”

“I don't want to hurt you.” The whisper was so small Bruce almost didn't hear it at all. 

“Then _don't_ ,” he growled. “I'm not asking you to lose control, or whatever it is you're scared of doing, but I don't want you to go easy on me either. Show me what the rodeo taught you.”

Relief washed over him when Clark's eyes crinkled in the corners. “I've never participated in a rodeo in my life,” he smiled. 

“Prove it,” Bruce smirked. “Let's go, farmboy.”

Within seconds, Bruce already had a mile long list of new observations to consider, starting with the fact that Clark was _fast_. Almost every punch Bruce threw at him was parried away with the palm of a hand. And he was doing it without trying to read Bruce's movements, at least as far as he could tell. He wasn't tracking Bruce's swings with his eyes until what seemed to be the last possible moment, in which he would knock it away. Whether he just didn't care to try and predict him at all, or if he didn't know how, Bruce couldn't tell. But either way, it was a weakness. 

The next thing he noticed was that, no matter how much of his weight he put behind his blows, Clark's stance never budged. _Sturdy_ , Bruce recalled, Clark had called himself sturdy when he had relayed the tale of breaking his arm. He certainly hadn't been over exaggerating. 

So he was dealing with someone who had quick reflexes and sure footing. Bruce smirked and let his gaze flicker down for a moment, measuring Clark's stance with his eyes. If he twisted just right on the way down, he could pull it off. He reached forward, both hands clasping tightly around Clark's wrists as he raised them to block, the rest of his body going limp as he swung himself down and forward. As he suspected, Clark supported his weight unflinchingly, even through the suddenness of the motion. Contorting his body sideways, his heels skidding on the mat, he slid right between Clark's legs and released his wrists. Once on the other side, Clark's back still to him, Bruce flattened his palms to the mat and pushed upwards, springing to his feet and grabbing the other man around the chest from behind.

“You're strong,” he said smugly, “but you still have the same mass as anyone else.” 

And then he flipped him. 

Clark, unsurprisingly, rolled with it and sat up almost immediately, his eyes wide and his cheeks flushed. But he hadn't broken a sweat, Bruce noted, and his breathing was still even. “That was . . . Awesome!” He exclaimed, “Show me how you did that!”

Bruce made a show of pretending to dust his hands off as he circled Clark, eventually extending a hand to pull him to his feet. “I think not. I want to see you on the offensive now. You were watching me teach Hal, right?” There was no denial, and when their eyes met Clark's sparkled with something akin to mischief. “I thought so. How about you show me what you've already learned instead?” He drew up his arms, fingers flexing into fists as he let Clark take a few steps back and size up his approach. This time the other man was actually taking the time to study him. He could see Clark's gaze lingering on the rise and fall of his chest, the way he shifted back on his heels as he waited.

When Clark finally charged him he was ready, leaning back to dodge the punch aimed for his shoulder and countering with one of his own. He faltered as it actually connected lightly with Clark's chest this time, confusion rippling through him for a split second before he felt firm fingers wrap around his forearm, his back, and that spark still hadn't left Clark's eyes. The world spun.

Stars exploded across Bruce's vision as his back hit the mat, every bit of oxygen driven out of his lungs in one long, forced out exhale. His hands came up to clutch at his head as the ceiling above swam with flecks of starlight.

Clark was crouched over him, his blue eyes wide with terror, his arms framing Bruce's torso. Someone was calling his name.

_Blue eyes and stars, constellations in a country sky._

Bruce sucked in a sharp gasping breath, sitting up so suddenly that their foreheads almost collided. Clark's hands were on his shoulders, and he could read the apologies on his lips even though his mind was still swimming too much to hear them. “It's okay,” he choked out when he had enough air in him to do so. “You just winded me. It's okay.”

“I nearly _concussed_ you!” Clark snapped, an anger in his eyes that Bruce knew wasn't for him. 

“But you didn't.” The truth, still hoarse in Bruce's throat as he caught his breath, made Clark's fingers clench painfully against his shoulders. He ignored it. “You didn't,” he repeated, surer. There was restraint in every string of Clark's posture, tightly wound and, Bruce realized, tightly controlled. Even the way he sat back on his heels, the slide of his hands over Bruce's collarbones as he let go, was measured. “I trusted you not to.”

It slipped out before he could consider the words fully, the unexpectedness of it parting Clark's frown as he stared at him. “. . . Yeah. You did.” He sounded awed by it, though Bruce could still hear a low tenor of fear beneath that. Regret. He stood, a hand running through his curls as he paced away from Bruce across the mat. Bruce didn't get up, still feeling a little too much like jello to attempt it. Instead, he focused on the tight roll of Clark's shoulders, the scar on his forearm that rippled when he fisted his hand at his side. “Fine,” he said after a heartbeat, “fine,” softer, like he was reasoning with himself. He turned back to Bruce, stalking over to him and reaching down to haul him bodily to his feet. “Friday, eleven PM. Wear all black, shirt, pants, beanie, shoes. Athletic shoes,” he amended. His hands were on Bruce's shoulders again. They were shaking. “Bring a burner phone, make sure it has a camera.” 

And then he let go, already halfway across the room and collecting his shoes from the side of the mat. There was more to be said, but Clark looked distinctly like he was going to throw up, and Bruce let his protests die on his tongue. 

Maybe they both needed some air, he thought wryly as he rubbed his hand over his chest in a useless effort to slow the rabbit-rapid beat of his heart. 

~~~***~~~

Hours later, under the light above the mirror in his tiny bathroom, Bruce couldn't find a single bruise. His muscles ached, and his right shoulder felt a little tight when he rolled it, but otherwise there wasn't any evidence of that morning's activities. It didn't match up with the petrified look in Clark's eyes when he'd landed so hard, it didn't reflect the fear of a man who had lost control. Which meant that, like Bruce had suspected, Clark _hadn't_ lost control. 

For the first time, Bruce had a solid conclusion about some of the puzzle that was Clark Kent. It didn't explain everything, far from it, but it went a long way towards smoothing out some of the seemingly harsher edges. His poor posture, the loose way in which he always seemed to hold himself, and the stark contrast of that to the calculated way he moved; Clark was desperately terrified of hurting someone. 

There were a number of reasons a phobia like that could emerge, Bruce mused as he pulled his hoodie back over his head and headed out for his last class of the day. Some perhaps more logical than others. The most obvious one, of course, stemmed from the story Clark had already told him. An arm broken in such a violent manner, harsh enough to rip through the skin, would traumatize any young kid away from violence. Yet . . . That answer almost seemed too easy, even despite the reluctant way in which the incident had been admitted to. His second thought was drawn from an even greater compilation of evidence. Clark clearly had a strong sense of justice, he would have to if he worked for _The Everyday_. Lois would accept nothing less. A lot of people like that, Bruce knew, picked up their taste for the underdogs of the world from personal experience. And a country kid with glasses, probably skinny and tall in his youth, it wasn't difficult to suspect that Clark had perhaps been bullied as a child. Maybe he'd been pushed too hard, hard enough to finally find the rage in him to push back, and someone had gotten hurt.

Shaking his head, Bruce shouldered his way into the chemistry building. He could ponder the extended mysteries of Clark Kent later, when he didn't have to try and sit through a lecture as well as attempt to discern if Silas Stone was the sort of person to end up strung up in a deep LexCorp conspiracy. 

To his bemusement, Barry was waiting outside the classroom, his textbook clutched tight to his chest as he worried his lower lip between his teeth. Bruce narrowed his eyes and glanced around the hallway. Something was wrong. 

“H-hey,” Barry practically squeaked when he approached. “Don't get mad, but we kind of have a situation.”

Bruce fell back against the wall next to him, as casually as he could manage between the other students rushing past to their own classes. “Oh?” He said, attempting to keep his voice light. 

Barry's hand came up, his finger and thumb gripping the wrist of Bruce's sleeve as he nodded. “You're late, we only have a few minutes left before class now, so we have to hurry. This way.” With a tug, he lead Bruce down the hall and around the corner. 

A sinking feeling swept through Bruce's chest and he wondered, the thought a thorn of contempt in the back of his mind as he watched Barry toe open the door to an empty classroom, if he was perhaps naive in the trust he had already placed on these people he'd known for less than a week. Barry's hand shook where it gripped his sleeve, and Bruce exhaled heavily. It was too harsh to think think that of Barry, even if the blond had just lead him into an empty room occupied only by Victor Stone leaning against a lab table. 

The door eeked shut behind them, and Bruce shook Barry's hand off to instead use that arm to sweep the younger man behind him in one smooth motion. By the way Victor's eyebrows climbed into his hairline it was definitely an overreaction. At the same time though he'd still rather be safe than sorry. “What can I do for you?” He asked calmly, putting on his best socialite dulcets. 

Victor folded his arms over his chest. “Alright,” he parried, “I guess maybe I deserve that. But we don't really have all that much time for discussion, do we.”

“Better get right to the point then,” Bruce agreed darkly. He fisted a hand into Barry's coat, pressing him closer behind his back until he felt the corners of his textbook against his spine, and didn't let go. 

Rolling his eyes, Victor stood and crossed the room. “Relax, I'm not gonna drop ya. I came to give you this.” He held something out in a closed hand, and, reluctantly, Bruce extended his free one palm up to receive it.

A list of a million things filed its way through his head of what Victor could possibly want with him, but as the metal of a key, warm from being held, fell into his possession, he found himself surprised. “What the-”

“Key to my dad's personal lab on the sixth floor,” Victor said smoothly. “For whatever it is you weirdos are up to.”

Bruce frowned, eyes narrowing as he tilted his head back to meet Victor's gaze. “What's the price?”

Ah, there it was. The slow curl of a smile like the cat who had been caught with the cream and was about to get away with it. “Nothing big,” Victor assured, “I just want you and Barry to play along with whatever I say after class. Capisce?”

“Barry has nothing to do with this,” Bruce practically growled. He pushed down a wave of shock at his own reaction, hand tightening in Barry's coat behind him. 

“He needs to if I'm going to let you walk out of here with that key.”

“Hey, yeah,” Barry piped up, “Barry here. Really not loving being talked about in the third person and not being asked for his opinion.” Bruce glared at him over his shoulder, his best “shut up” glare that had absolutely zero effect, as Barry just carried right on with hardly a pause for breath. “Cause in Barry's opinion, he _totally_ wants in on whatever it is we're talking about. Wait, no,” a hand came up to clap over his mouth, doing nothing to muffle the words, “now you've got me talking in third person about _myself_!”

“You spoke in the first person just now,” Bruce deadpanned.

“I'm cured!”

Victor's phone was out when Bruce turned his attention to him again. There wasn't much he could do about Barry wanting to be in the thick of things, it was definitely already far too late for that. “I'll go back second, if you guys want to get there before class starts,” Victor said. “My old man will be pissed I'm late, but if I show up with you he'll think I've blackmailed you when shit pops off later.”

“You did blackmail us,” Barry spoke up as Bruce started shoving him towards the door so they could be on their merry way before the entire mess got any worse than it already was. 

The sound of Victor's laugh, hollow and forced, echoed down the hall. “Nah!” He called after them, “This is a trade!”

The class dragged on, and Bruce found himself once again unable to keep himself focused on the lesson in light of recent events. Somewhere in Gotham, he could feel a palpable disappointment radiating, and shuddered at the thought of presenting his grades to Alfred at the end of the semester. God forbid it ever got out to the press, Bruce Wayne's less than stellar college career tanking as it had barely begun would haunt him for the rest of his life. At least he wasn't alone in that misery though, with the way Barry maintained a steady rhythm of drumming beats with his palms against his thighs beneath the table during the entire lecture. Between them they could probably compile a grand total of zero notes for the period. Again.

And as much as he braced himself, Bruce still wasn't ready for Victor to uncurl from his now borderline trademark slump at the front of the room and make a beeline right for their lab table once his father released the class. “Ready?” He asked, so honied fake that Bruce's stomach churned.

Silas Stone was upon them in an instant, his hand clamping down on Victor's shoulder. To his credit, Victor didn't flinch, but his eyes shuttered. “My boy's not bothering you, is he?” He asked, his tone icy despite his hint of a smile. 

“No,” Bruce said, “Not at all.” He stood, using the movement to give Victor a slight nod. “We were just about to leave.”

The relief, so vibrant in Victor's eyes for a moment, made Bruce want to rip Silas's hand from the kid's shoulder. “Didn't I tell you?” Victor said brightly.“Bruce and Barry agreed to help tutor me. We were going to go hit up the library for a couple of hours.”

Frowning, Silas ground out, “I really don't think you need tutoring. Your grades would be higher if you just applied yourself to your studies more than you do to your extracurriculars.”

Victor shrugged, the action causing Silas's hand to slip from his shoulder. Deliberate, Bruce thought. “Isn't that what I'm doing?”

“What you're doing is bothering my students.”

“If it were a bother, I wouldn't have made the offer in the first place,” Bruce interrupted cooly. He waited until Silas's gaze shifted to him, watching the way he seemed to size him up. “I was happy to help out, seeing as I've known Victor since he was young.”

Ah, there it was. Silas took half a step back, as close to a flinch as Bruce knew he would get. “I see. Well, a man of your standing certainly wouldn't be wasting his time on someone without good reason.” 

“I wouldn't call it a waste,” Bruce drawled, “more like an investment of time in an effort to encourage a prosperous future.”

“Bruce has a whole branch of the Foundation that's about that!” The timing of Barry chiming in was, of course, too perfect for Bruce to have planned it. “He helped me, too!”

Finally, Silas looked interested, and Bruce subtly waved his hand below is waist for Victor to come stand beside him. “So Mister Allen is one of your success stories then?” It was an over exaggerated assumption, but Bruce wasn't going to correct him. “If that's true, I'm impressed. His assistance this summer only highlighted his already high aptitude.” He settled his attention on Victor again, “In that case, perhaps there is some value for you in being tutored, if it leads to you showing some semblance of interest in a viable career field.”

The words were far too familiar for Bruce's comfort, echoing in his own memories of boarding school hallways, hands at his throat and a wall at his back. “ _What will lashing out get you, Wayne? A black eye today, prison time tomorrow. Certainly not a career. Schoolyard vigilantism doesn't suit you_.” They pooled in his chest, cold with the passage of time but no less biting. Fuck the key, he decided ruefully. He'd trade this “tutoring” for something much more satisfying. “Oh, I don't know about that, Doctor Stone,” he said, all sanguine disinterest. “Victor did promise me front row seats to his next game in exchange.” He felt Victor stiffen beside him, heard the hitch in his breath. “Seeing as his reserved family tickets have been neglected thus far, I thought I'd put them to good use.” He smiled, an old hint of feral rage burning low in the darkest depths of him. “You wouldn't believe the opportunities that can open up for those among us with talent in both academics and athletics. With the right connections of course.”

Turning, he settled a hand on Barry's back to guide him away, the other crooking to motion Victor to follow. “If you'll excuse us, we should get to the library before someone takes that book I wanted to show you, Victor. It really does have a fantastic collection of thesis papers someone with a mind of your caliber could appreciate.” 

He was relieved when they were able to exit the room without further resistance, though he didn't drop his pace or posture, nor the hand on Barry's back, until they were halfway to the library. “If you're having a panic attack,” he said in the wake of Victor's continued harsh breathing on his other side, “let me know so we can detour to somewhere quieter.”

“Quieter than the library?” Barry asked. He was clutching his textbook to his chest again, nearly as rattled as Victor. Bruce dropped his hand from his back and pivoted on his heels so he could face them both.

“The only way to stand up to those who want nothing more than to hold you down is to fight back,” he intoned. “And where fists won't do the job, you use any other tools you have at your disposal. Influence and money, for instance. Something most people don't have, but I have in abundance.” A thought occurred to him, and his eyes quickly raked over any exposed skin he could see on Victor. “Does he hit you?”

Victor's eyes widened, “What? _No_.”

“Good. Then you won't have anything to fear when you get home. I doubt he'll do anything more than give you one of those patented disappointed parent looks.”

His lip curling, Victor said, “Because you staked a claim on me?”

“What!?” Barry squeaked.

“Not like that,” Bruce admonished. “I expressed a vested interest in Victor's potential career as . . . What is it you play again?”

“Football.” Victor's head was in his hands. “Oh my god.”

“As a quarterback,” Bruce finished. “And implied he might have my financial support in his near future should he keep both good grades in school and good scores in the field. Even Silas Stone would be a fool to oppose that, no matter how lowly he looks down upon sports.” 

“He just wants back into enough people's good graces to get his hands on classified tech again,” Victor said. “You know that, right?”

“I know he's desperate enough for it to overlook whatever it is you're actually doing so long as you're in my company,” Bruce returned evenly. “That's why you sought me out in the first place, isn't it?” He shouldered his way through the campus library's wide double doors with a clipped, “Wave to the librarian at the front desk, make sure she sees you,” to Victor, and then pretended to appear impressed by some statue of the college's founder while he did so. Once that was taken care of, he pointed off in the direction of a row of shelving with feigned enthusiasm, taking both his companions by the elbows and dragging them towards it. They lingered there for a moment, playing at being interested in what was apparently a collection of young adult novels, before Bruce grabbed them both again and lead them around the other side and out the back door.

“You're smarter than you look,” Victor said lightly once they were out in the sun again. “Actually stopping by the library, making sure we're seen. Genius.” 

“I'll ignore the part about my looks and take that as a compliment,” Bruce said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. And then, because Barry looked like he was about to jitter right out of his skin, added, “Now where are we actually going?”

To his astonishment, Victor lifted a hand and rubbed it over the back of his neck, his eyes shifting away. “You don't have to come. I just needed the out, and it's stupid anyways.”

Beside Bruce, Barry had moved his textbook into his backpack, and was in the process of pulling it onto his shoulders again as he offhandedly said, “That's a lie. _You_ don't think it's stupid.” They both stared at him. “What? I'm not in forensic science for nothing.”

“I . . . Suppose not,” Victor relented. “Fine, you guys can come. _But_ -” He pointed an accusing finger at Bruce specifically, “If you laugh, I get the key back.”

“Deal.”

~~~***~~~

Lois had done an article on this place, Bruce realized as Victor lead them up the walkway to the little, run down two-story a dozen blocks from the school. It was a group home, and if he recalled correctly it was a last stop one, meant for the most extreme of wayward youths. It was the sort of place a less lucky, less wealthy version of himself might have ended up in his childhood without the support net his parents left behind for him. The only question, above why Victor was willing to risk his father's ire to come here, was why he thought Bruce would laugh. 

Or at least it was until the front door slammed open and a kid bolted out wearing a football Jersey ten sizes too big for him over his red hoodie and jeans, and practically threw himself into Victor's waiting arms with a yell of, “You are fucking LATE!” 

Bruce stuffed his knuckles into his mouth. 

The boy's blue eyes zeroed in on him almost immediately over Victor's shoulder, and the soft admonishment of, “ _Billy, language_ ,” was overshadowed by, “Shit, Victory, how'd you snag a sugar daddy like Bruce Wayne?!”

“I'm not laughing,” Bruce said into his hands, his shoulders shaking. 

Victor rose from his crouched position, the kid clambering over his shoulders to drape himself across the teenager's back like a monkey. “I'll let it slide, this time,” Victor sighed. “Barry, you're allowed to laugh.”

Barry, who had apparently been holding his breath, let it out in a wheeze of giggles. “Okay, I have to say, this is by far the weirdest thing that has ever happened to me.” The blond choked, “Harassed into a covert meeting, then staring down a potentially mad scientist, all for it to be for the sake of a _kid_?”

“Excuse you,” said kid snapped over Victor's shoulder, “I'm thirteen!” Victor bounced on his heels, jostling him into shutting his mouth for the time being. 

“I come here twice a week, three if I can swing it,” Victor began once Bruce removed his hands from his face far enough to pay attention. “The team has a deal with locations like this where we get extra credit in our classes for mentoring a kid for a certain number of hours a semester. Sort of like a Big Brothers program.”

Bruce highly doubted that the number of hours the school required was equal to a twice a week level of attention, but like hell he was going to point that out, not when the result was so obviously positive. “And what do you get out of it?” He asked the kid, genuinely interested.

“The chance of a lifetime to convince Bruce Wayne to make me his ward.”

“ _Billy_!” Victor hissed.

The kid rolled his eyes, “Fine. On the record, I get help with homework and an outlet for my ‘aggression,’” he balanced his elbows on Victor's shoulders to make airquotes, “via a healthy interest in sports. Off record?” And here Bruce could actually see the boy's chest puff up with pride as Victor hitched him higher on his back so he could pluck at the blue and gold Titans jersey in full view. “Unfettered access to the one and only _Victory_ Stone,” he crowed, the syllables of the nickname carrying a singsong note. It was an interesting contrast to the embarrassed flush that tinged Victor's cheeks. 

“You know,” Victor said as he lowered the kid back to the sidewalk. “Barry here doesn't know how to play football.” He gestured to an affronted looking Barry as he spoke. “Like, at all.” 

“Yeah, he looks like a nerd,” the kid mused aloud. Barry practically squawked in protest.

Victor nudged him towards the gate, “Someone should teach him how to at least catch a ball so he's not totally hopeless.”

“I know how to catch a ball!” Barry yelped as Billy dug into Victor's backpack and pulled one out by triumphantly lifting it over his head. “I'll show you!” And then the pair of them were taking off across the street towards the empty field beyond. 

“That was easy,” Bruce remarked. 

“They're both impulsive,” Victor agreed. He made his way through the gate himself, Bruce following close behind, and sat down on the browning grass at the edge of the lot. After a heartbeat, Bruce did the same, his legs crossed. “I know you aren't going to take all this at face value,” he said after a few minutes of watching Barry try and dodge a football being flung at him from far too close for the speed and force being put behind it. 

“This doesn't seem like the usual sort of move people make to spite their fathers, and the kid seems like too much of a fanboy for you to have sought him out,” Bruce said, leaning back on his hands.

Surprisingly, Victor laughed, “His name's Billy Batson. And you're right, I didn't. He found me. Snuck into the championship game last year and stole my jersey.” Bruce didn't ask if it was the same one he was currently wearing, if only because that much was obvious simply by the pride in Billy's eyes when he'd shown it off, like it was treasured both because of who it belonged to as well as how it was acquired. “When I dragged him back here to turn him in, the lady who runs the house just seemed so . . . Disappointed, that I lied. Said I invited him and was interested in signing up for the program they had through my school.” He tensed, hunching in on himself a little as his eyes tracked Billy's arm as it swung back to wing the ball at Barry again. “Did you ever end up in the system after your parents died?”

The bluntness was almost a relief. “No, I didn't.”

“This is Billy's seventh foster home,” Victor whispered, “in the last _two years_. This place is the last stop for kids like him before they just give up and toss them into juvenile detention. If I can keep that from happening . . .” He drew off, his eyes steely with a dark determination that Bruce felt reflected in his very core. 

“It'll make you feel like you're here for something more than what your father made you to be,” Bruce filled in. Victor's gaze settled on him as he spoke, no less intense. He didn't move to deny it. “I always wondered if it was true.”

“No you didn't,” Victor chuckled darkly. “You just wondered if it made me less human.”

“There are a lot of things that can make people lesser,” Bruce said as he pushed himself to his feet. “I tend to only judge others by the ones that are a _choice_.” He brushed grass off his jeans, waiting for Victor to stand as well before he spoke again. “You want to know what I need the key for, right?”

“I want to know if my father is doing something that will put me or the people I care about in danger,” Victor corrected. “I don't want any of this to come back to bite me in the ass, or worse, get someone else hurt.” The exact someone else was obvious by the flicker of russet eyes out over the field, the quirk of a smile when he caught sight of Billy tackling Barry into the grass. “If my dad is getting mixed up in something bad,” he said quietly, “and it comes down on that kid because he's connected to me, and I could have done something to stop it but _didn't_ , I'll never forgive myself.” He shuddered, and shook it off just as quickly, his arms folding over his chest. “I just hope I'm doing the right thing,” it was meaningful, the weight in each word a burden, and Bruce took it upon his shoulders without hesitation. “I hope I'm trusting the right people.”

“You are,” Bruce assured softly. 

“Hey, Victory!” Billy called across the field, framed against the backdrop of the setting sun with the football tucked under his arm. There was grass in Barry's hair, but he was grinning. “Drag your sugar daddy over here so we can play a two on two!”

Victor pinched the bridge of his nose, “He's not going to drop it unless you correct him, you know.”

“Oh, well then, allow me,” Bruce said smartly, the statement punctuated by a flourishing bow. 

In the distance, Billy cackled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a reference to For Forever from Dear Evan Hansen. 
> 
> More allusions to the 8 comic pages that are canon (at least partially). Kudos to anyone who recognizes it at this point, but I'm not linking it in the fic itself until later because REASONS. 
> 
> Victor and Billy's relationship is based entirely on the Justice League: War movie, because it's the best part of the film and so pure and good that it made me grin the entire time I got to write it in this chapter. 
> 
> Next time, we'll finally to start digging into the shit Lex is up to with a good old fashioned break in.


	5. Dance In A Dark Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit kicks off, and metaphorical guards must be dropped in order to continue forwards.

Even in the midst of vast technological advancement, there really was no place better for research than a library. The early morning light streaked through the windows in fractals, illuminating dust motes between the towering shelves that Bruce stalked amidst. He'd forgone both sparring with Hal and breakfast to be there, hopelessly lost for how else to focus when Clark had left him in the dark for over twenty-four hours now. At first it had been almost expected given how shaken Clark had seemed when they'd parted on Wednesday, but when he hadn't shown at the dining hall at all on Thursday, and hadn't answered anyone's texts, it bordered on ridiculous. 

So Bruce did the only thing he could think of; he followed his leads. 

The fact that said leads only included a couple of dusty old books was beside the point. 

The first text was easy to find, a big bulky brick of a book on Operation Paperclip that sat almost alone on its shelf. It was a hunch, and not a very strong one at that, but Bruce wanted to cover all his bases, starting with any known egregious scientists that might be hiding out in a town like Smallville in the last of their twilight years. The second was a simple, thinner book on turn of the century Kansas life, and it might as well have been tucked away in the Bermuda Triangle for how impossible it was to find. He tracked his way up and down the winding maze of shelves in the history section, pulling out and flipping through every misplaced tome, fingers lingering on every spine that was too worn to display the title any longer. Yet still he came up empty handed. There was always the chance that the library's computer was wrong, that the book had been checked out, stolen, or misplaced. A number of factors could have taken this specific volume from its spot on the shelf and out of Bruce's reach. Somehow, though, as he flattened his hand across the bare shelf for the hundredth time, disturbing the dust outlining the shape of where it used to be, he knew it wasn't a coincidence. 

A book, narrative enough to be classified as a nonfiction novel with its descriptions of the Kansas countryside two counties over from Smallville, just happened to be missing exactly when he needed it. 

That early in the morning, the library was especially hushed. Every sound echoed, and the reverberation of footsteps approaching was almost a cacophony that rang all the warning bells in his distracted mind. He turned to face it, an arm still folded over his chest and his opposite elbow tucked into his palm as he let his fingers slide away from the blank space on the shelf. 

Of all the people he expected to be cornered by in the library on the eve of his first foray into morally grey burglary, he would have pinned Diana Prince near the bottom of the list. She seemed out of breath, and Bruce wondered if she had run there from the breakfast he was absent from. Except . . . Bruce's eyes narrowed as he forced himself to look closer, to pick at the small details. There was no flush to her cheeks, and her nostrils didn't flair when she breathed in. Besides that, Diana clearly worked out quite a bit, a run from the dining hall to the library wouldn't wind her so easily. 

“I hope you didn't come all the way here just to see me,” he said, genuine curiosity lilting its way through the words. 

In the near week he'd been there, Diana hadn't gone out of her way to talk to any one of them individually, save for perhaps Lois. She'd remained fairly aloof, and any interjections she did make in their mealtime conversations had been short. So to say Bruce was intrigued that she had sought him out was a bit of an understatement. Especially as she actually seemed to find Hal to be the most amusing of the bunch when she actually deigned to speak to them, and had barely spared Bruce more than a passing glance.

She used a hand to sweep her long hair back over her shoulder as she approached, a move that highlighted Bruce's earlier conclusion that she hadn't been out of breath at all. It was constructed, a careful imitation, he just couldn't fathom why. “I just wanted to wish you luck before your adventures tonight,” she said.

“Luck,” Bruce repeated flatly. 

Diana waved a dismissive hand between them. “That's the most colloquial phrase, is it not?”

He shifted on his feet and folded his other arm across his chest to rest with the first. “I don't really think luck is going to factor into this, if I'm being honest.” She hummed a soft, agreeable note, but didn't reply. “If something goes wrong tonight, it'll be because of our own shortcomings. Or short-sightedness.” 

“I think you are vastly underestimating your mettle.” She lifted a hand, and Bruce watched with feigned disinterest as she traced a finger over the gap in the shelf where the text he was looking for should have been. The motion seemed absent-minded, or it would have been if he hadn't caught the tiny flicker of interest that sparked in her eyes when they lit upon the gap in the row of books. “Some wars are small, but no less worth fighting for,” she whispered, “And some start small, and unfold into something few can hope to stand against.” Her left hand lifted to thumb at the golden paracord bracelet she always wore, and with a minute nod he suspected was meant only to reassure herself, she unclasped it. “Give me your arm.”

Obligingly, Bruce held out his right hand, palm up. Almost as if he was spelled still, he held his breath as Diana hooked the cord around his own wrist. The clasp snapped closed, and she pursed her lips together and pressed it into his pulse point for a moment with a deliberateness that he couldn't shake. 

“Is this for luck?”

A laugh bubbled out of her. “No. It's for victory. But . . .” she drew off, her hands falling back to her sides. “But should you find your backs against a wall tonight, as long as your convictions remain _true_ , I will feel comforted in lending this to you.” 

The gold of the bracelet caught the early morning light streaming in through the windows, highlighting each thick, carefully woven line in a way that almost glowed. “Like a shield, right?” He said, and she tilted her head, eyebrows furrowing. “Either with your shield, or on it.”

“That's a . . . Very old saying,” she said coolly, a catch in her tone he couldn't unravel. “But I suppose it fits.”

“Better that than luck,” Bruce smirked wryly.

~~~***~~~

Breaking the charade of hauling Barry and Victor off to the library after class again would be suspicious, or at least that's what Bruce told himself when he did it. Or perhaps he just really liked the look of open annoyance on Silas's face. Maybe, though . . . Maybe he just needed the time to breathe before night fell.

At least that had been the general idea when he'd laid back into the grass of the empty field with his hands linked behind his head. The first day of autumn was just around the corner, and it had begun to show in the chill in the air and the faint orange tinge on the edges of the trees. He'd closed his eyes after taking it all in, letting the tense coil that had wound in him the past two days unfurl right there on the grass, but he opened them again now as a shadow settled over him and blocked the last rays of the setting sun from glinting gold inside his eyelids. 

“So do you have a yacht?”

Billy's hands were splayed on either side of Bruce's head, his knees tucked under him as he leaned into the man's field of vision. The word precocious came to mind suddenly, especially when Billy cocked a toothy grin at him that said that he knew he was being a pest, and was thoroughly enjoying it. A deep and abrupt sympathy for Alfred seeped into his bones. 

“No,” Bruce drawled. Though it wasn't exactly a bad idea. Frivolous and something he didn't have time for, but a yacht would be a good place to try and gain sway over potential business contacts. There was nothing rich people loved more than other rich people flaunting their money in public.

“Oh,” Billy muttered, disappointed. “Well, why the hell not?”

Bruce angled his head to the right to see Victor look up from where he and Barry were bent over a notebook in Barry’s lap, apparently _actually_ doing some studying. “Billy, don't bother Bruce,” he chided, looking as if to stand and haul him off to be a nuisance elsewhere.

“He's fine,” Bruce heard himself say.

“I am a delight,” Billy confirmed giddily.

Victor leveled them both with a disbelieving stare, then jerked his chin a little in Bruce's direction, a promise to intervene if Bruce gave him any indication he'd changed his mind. 

Bruce heaved out a sigh and pushed himself into a sitting position, one arm resting across the caps of his knees while Billy scrambled to his feet and moved to sit in front of him. “I'm in school,” he said once the boy was seated. “I don't have time for yachts.”

“What's the point of having a billion dollars if you don't have a yacht?” It was said with a sullen air, but the kid didn't hide the curve of a smile as well as Bruce could. He was teasing him, Bruce realized belatedly. 

“I have a house,” he deadpanned while he let that odd epiphany sink in. “And assets,” he added just because he could.

“Assets,” Billy repeated blithely. “Is that the official name for that creepy as fuck ghost house you've got down by the woods?”

Bruce frowned, drowning out Victor's sharp reprimand of “ _Billy_!” beneath the symphony of his own thoughts. “I . . . Don't know what house you're talking about,” he said finally. The excess properties belonging to his parents had been one of the first things that had been taken care of following their deaths, the money from their sales going directly into Bruce's accounts. And as far as he had been aware, they had never had one on this side of the bay that separated Metropolis from Gotham. 

Billy just shrugged, “I mean, it has that big-ass W on the gates. I assumed it was yours.” He smirked and leaned closer, like it was a secret as he whispered, “It's wack haunted though.”

“That's just what kids say when they don't want people to find out they've been vandalizing a place,” Bruce returned evenly. 

“Hey, not me,” Billy tilted his hands out with an almost universal gesture of nonchalance. “I'm not into destruction of private property.” The fact that he was into something else equally ill advised went unsaid, especially when his gaze shifted ruefully towards the house across the street for a heartbeat. 

Bruce couldn't help himself after that look, his instinctive need to know and understand taking over his better judgement. “So then, what are you into.” In his peripherals he saw Victor's head jerk up again, and ignored it. 

“Which time?” Billy held up a hand, his other wiggling over raised fingers on the other, ready to count them off. “Cause we've got punching a guy, kicking a guy, and in one really spectacular case, beating the shit out of a guy with the crutch of the kid he wouldn't lay off of.” For a second Bruce caught a glimpse of something dark in his eyes then, vengeful and angry, before Victor was there, an arm clasping across Billy's chest to hoist him unceremoniously off the ground.

“That's enough if that,” he said evenly, but Bruce could hear the restraint in his tone, the warning that was meant for _both_ of them to drop the subject. 

“Sorry,” Billy whispered, and draped across the width of Victor's arm, his toes not quite touching the ground, he seemed so much smaller than he had a moment ago. At thirteen he clearly still hadn't hit his growth spurt, and Bruce found himself picking out the dark circles under his eyes, the thinness of his wrists, that he hadn't thought to look for before. It was a shock, like looking in a mirror, to see the signs of a kid who didn't sleep well, didn't remember to eat regularly. The painful familiarity of it sunk into his chest like a stone. And Victor . . . Victor was just looking at him, waiting, _knowing_ , and Bruce knew now why he'd asked if he'd ever been in the system before. 

He stood and hesitated with his hand already half raised. Every touch he'd allowed himself in the past week had been either requested, or instinctive. He'd sparred with Hal, with Clark, held out his arm for Diana, inclined his head to Lois to let an ice pack be placed against it, because they had asked that of him. He'd pulled Barry behind him with his own body as a shield, reached out for Clark's arm, on instinct. This would be neither of those things. It would be deliberate, and not so easily brushed off as politeness or some thoughtless muscle memory. It would anchor him, if he did it, irrevocably. Because it was something he wanted. 

And that terrified him.

If he reached out, completed the aborted movement, there would be no turning back.

His hand came down, slowly, carefully, and his fingers threaded into Billy's hair for just a moment before he curled them and ruffled the dark locks, eliciting a startled, “Hey!” from the boy.

“Let’s go get dinner. What do you want to eat?” It was directed at all of them, technically, but any other answers died a prompt death beneath Billy’s roar of, “PIZZA!” Victor, startled, almost dropped him.

 _Affection_ , Bruce acknowledged belatedly, the feeling so utterly foreign that it had stilled his hand for a heartbeat with the implications of it. A tethor had been drawn, still slack in its intensity but no less substantial. He felt the corner of his mouth quirk up. “Pizza it is.” 

His hand fell away.

An anchor was thrown down in an open, windswept sea, and he felt it scrape for purchase somewhere between his ribs. 

~~~***~~~

The little Italian bistro Barry had picked out served both by the slice and whole pizzas, the latter of which Bruce found himself carefully carrying back up the stairs and into the dorm sometime later that night. The hours until Clark was supposed to come get him seemed infinite, and he shuffled his feet as he walked, drug down with the uncertainty that Clark would even come get him at all. 

Hal was laying on his stomach across his bed when he pushed the door open, a textbook (Western Civilization, Bruce noted) laying open but forgotten among the blankets and and an old, clear purple Gameboy Color in his hands. He seemed focused on whatever game he was playing, and didn't look up until Bruce settled the pizza box on the mattress beside him. 

“Why do I feel like this is a bribe pizza?” Hal asked, setting his Gameboy down in favor of popping the lid open to peek at the toppings. When Bruce didn't answer, Hal took a slice anyways. “So, on the threshold of your super secret spy mission, and you've lapsed into sulking.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose and turned away to sink down onto his own bed. “There's so many things wrong with that statement that I don't even know where to begin.”

“How about at the beginning?”

“You really think you're hilarious, don't you?”

“Oh no,” Hal smirked between bites, “I _know_ I am.” He sarcastically cupped a hand over one ear, “But if you want to vent, I'm all ears. 

Bruce huffed out a breath and reached behind him to snag the baseball tucked between the mattress and the wall, “No one wants to listen to me vent, Hal.” His thumbs found the seams, as they always did, and traced them. 

“Whatever you say, Hot Topic, but I doubt your spooky musings are that much more edgelord than anyone else's.”

Narrowing his eyes, Bruce pressed the pad of his right thumb over the thread's descent from red to blue. “I need you to stop using proper nouns and weird internet slang as adjectives,” he muttered absently. “Every second it takes me to decipher it is another brain cell I lose.”

“I don't want to hear that from you, a person who has literally quoted Poe during the middle of a normal lunch conversation.” He pulled out another slice and began demolishing it with quick bites. “Anyways,” Hal's tone was light, but his eyes were hard in stark contrast. “What’s the bribe pizza for?”

Bruce chewed on the inside of his lip for a moment before he spoke. “You have a motorcycle, right?” Hal blinked at him, his mouth falling open slightly. “The other day you had grease on your forehead, like you'd wiped your sweat away with the back or your hand in the middle of working on something. And your only other coat besides the bomber is a leather one with a patch on one elbow, probably covering a tear from a rough fall.”

“That's . . . Scary.” He finished off his second slice and let his hands fall to his lap. “I have one, yeah, but it's pretty old. What do you need it for?” 

This was a bad idea, Bruce thought as he took in the odd posture Hal had settled in to. Somehow, he'd overstepped. It was written in the way Hal was keeping his eyes averted, the clench of his hands against his thighs. “Never mind,” he brushed off, “it's nothing.” 

Hal's head jerked up, and for a swift instant he looked torn, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed back whatever emotion had surged beneath the surface of his skin when Bruce brought up the bike. “No, it's . . . What do you need it for?” The words were surer this time, even if Bruce could still pick out the hesitancy in his eyes. 

Bruce sighed and directed his gaze on the ceiling with a tilt of his head. “There might be a property just outside of town that belongs to my family. I want to go take a look at it, see if its worth salvaging and then locate any paperwork there is for it.” He paused, “We could make it a day trip,” he offered tentatively. “I hear it's haunted.”

Hal scoffed, “Oh, well then. You should have said this was a ghost busting trip earlier!” The tension never quite lifted from his shoulders, but he broke out into easy smile regardless. “You know this means you have to sit on the back right?” Bruce made a face, and Hal tipped himself backwards across his mattress with an outright guffaw, hands clutching at his sides. When he finally got ahold of himself, propped up on an elbow with his legs dangling off the edge of the bed, Bruce had schooled his face into a decidedly less horrified expression. “So, what, tomorrow?” Hal asked with a wave of his hand, “Assuming you make it back from your highly illegal transgressions, of course.” He quickly turned his head away to choke back another laugh when Bruce just scowled at him. 

“Technically I have a key, a key that was given to me,” Bruce reminded. 

“A key you're not supposed to have, to let you sneak into somewhere you're not supposed be, to take things you're not supposed to know about,” Hal recited airily. “Sounds illegal to me.”

“It sounds like a bunch of perfectly accessible loopholes to me,” Bruce countered. He stood to go to his closet, almost in defiance of Hal's accusation, to start digging out the clothes Clark had requested he wear. Luckily the majority of his wardrobe was already black, the decision making was merely going to rest upon how practical he wanted his outfit to be. 

As if reading his mind, Hal said, “So, is it gonna be Cat Burglar Chic or Criminal Record Goth?”

“Neither.” Bruce held up a pair of black jeans consideringly. “Especially as I was never goth.”

“I'm not believing that until I see every single one of your school yearbook pictures,” Hal grinned. “Also, are you seriously considering wearing skinny jeans on a heist?”

Bruce turned a glare at him, “It's not a heist. And I prefer to have as little loose fabric as possible for mobility's sake.” It was also one of his only pairs that didn't have a Wayne logo patched along the line of the hip. A form fitting turtleneck, equally black of course, was chosen next, and he ignored Hal's snickers as he ducked into the bathroom to change. 

Careful to tug the end of his sleeve down over Diana's bracelet when he reemerged, he found Hal digging through a duffel that had previously been tucked under the bed. Bruce brushed past him to snag a pair of black gloves and a beanie off the desk. When Hal still didn't look up from whatever he was doing, Bruce threw the hat at him instead of putting it on. 

Hal narrowed his eyes at him over his shoulder, his hands still rifling through the duffel. “You try to help a guy with a skinny jeans problem and he throws hats at you,” he muttered. 

Bruce gestured down at himself, “ _Excuse me_? I bet you can't find a single person on Earth who thinks that me being in skinny jeans is a problem.”

Hal, to his credit, at least had the wit to give him a rather acerbic once over. “I'm not talking about _that_. I mean your fucking pockets, moron. How are you gonna carry that burner phone? Let alone anything else you might need.”

Oh. Right. He cleared his throat, buying time to find a good response to the fact that he'd overlooked something so critical. Except in the next second Hal had let out a soft, “ _Ah-ha_!” and had whipped around to brandish something in Bruce's face. His eyebrows arched up in surprise. “Where the hell did you get that?” 

In front of him, hanging heavily from Hal's outstretched hand, was a black tactical belt. With ten pockets in total wrapping all the way around, it was nothing to scoff at. It also wasn't something an airman like Hal would normally have in his possession either. “Won it off a guy during an poker tournament on the carrier I was on for a few months,” Hal shrugged. “Totally wore it around for bragging rights until I got shipped off elsewhere, and I haven't used it since.”

“So I might as well?” Bruce filled in as he took it. It seemed almost brand new, only a few places had scuffs along the buttons to show the pockets had even ever been used. He turned to eye the pile of supplies he'd scraped together that morning where they lay on the desk. “. . . Thank you, Hal,” he said slowly, “this is perfect.”

Hal smirked and patted his chest in self praise, “Oh, I know.”

Bruce felt his lips quirk upwards, “It seems even you have good ideas sometimes.”

“You just had to bring me down a peg, didn't you,” Hal scowled, but Bruce could see the humor in his eyes. “You couldn't just let us have a moment.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

~~~***~~~

On the ever growing list of bizarre things Clark Kent did, being perpetually late was definitely Bruce's least favorite. On any other occasion he would have brushed it off, but when he wasn't even sure Clark would come get him at all, it just made him all the more tense, the absolute last thing he needed to be before something like that. 

By the time a knock sounded against the door at a quarter past eleven, he was absolutely livid. 

He swung the door open more force than necessary, and it was only Clark quickly snagging the edge of it that stopped it from banging loudly against the wall. “You know this is supposed to be a stealth mission, right?” Clark hissed. 

“Do I know that?” Bruce snapped. “I don't think I do, since I haven't heard from you for two days!” He stopped, frowning as he finally took a good look at Clark. “. . . Why are you dressed in blue?”

Clark glanced away, a faint flush spreading across his cheeks as he picked at the dark navy sweatshirt he had on. “There was a hole in my black hoodie.”

“And you had nothing else black?”

“Not everyone's wardrobe looks like Dracula's wet dream!” Hal called from his bed.

Bruce promptly bundled Clark back out into the hall and shut the door behind them. He huffed out a breath through his nose, “Never mind. It's . . . It's fine.” When he looked up, he was annoyed to see that Clark had the gall to look guilty. “It's fine,” he repeated, “It'll blend into the shadows well enough.”

Clark blinked, and then shook his head as if clearing it. “Oh! No, that's not . . .” He glanced away again, a hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. “I'm sorry for the radio silence,” he said, almost tersely. “It was rude of me.” His shoulders were hunched, but the posture lacked the usual disingenuousness of it. Maybe it was because he kept his eyes averted, a stark contrast to the way he usually seemed to be intently observing everything despite his mild-mannered mask. Normally, Bruce would accept the apology and move on. But . . .

But Clark hadn't yet offered up an explanation for the behavior, and that outweighed the guilt by a mile. So instead, he ran his hand through his hair and shifted his gaze to the ceiling. “Let's just go, get this over with.” He started to stalk down the hall, and drew up short when Clark's hand clamped down on his right wrist. The movement jerked him bodily back, much stronger than he expected, and it made his sleeve ride up until Clark's bare fingers were sliding over the winding gold of Diana's paracord bracelet. 

“I-” Clark’s voice hitched. “I _want_ you to be there, tonight, Bruce.”

And for some reason, with a sudden and unshakable certainty, Bruce knew that was the absolute truth. It was off putting, to know that, unsettling to have Clark staring at him with such earnest warmth. “Why?” he couldn't help but ask.

“Because you _know_ me.” As soon as the words were out if his mouth, his hand had snapped away from Bruce's wrist as if he'd been burned, his eyes widening with something so akin to terror that Bruce felt a stab of regret for having asked. “I didn't mean to say that,” Clark whispered. “Why did I say that?”

Bruce bit down hard on the inside of his lip, cutting back all the remarks he wanted to make in such an advantageous moment. What Clark had said was odd, but it wasn't important for what lay ahead of them in the here and now. If anything, it only weighed them down more. “No,” he said, the words thick as molasses in his mouth, “I only wish I did.” It was an entirely too honest thing to say, Bruce thought, mutinous at his own slip of the tongue as he tugged his sleeve back down over golden glint of the paracord. “Come on. We need to get this show on the road while the night’s still young.”

~~~***~~~

Silas Stone kept office on the top floor of the campus's biggest lab building. With the windows facing the south, the mid-August moonlight at that time of night wasn't quite enough to guide their way as they shuffled through more files of paperwork than Bruce had ever seen in his life. He kept his small red-capped flashlight held carefully between his teeth as he carefully thumbed through a drawer on the opposite side of the room from Clark. 

“I still think we should check the computer,” he whispered as he slid that drawer shut, spitting the flashlight out for a moment as he shuffled onto his knees to drag open the next one. “Lex isn't really the type to let people keep this kind of information where just anybody can snag it.”

Clark waved a flippant hand at him over his shoulder. “It's a work computer, Bruce. Anyone with access to the professor database can log in to them. Only a moron would keep anything of import on there.” 

Bruce stopped to glare at him, but instead found himself watching in silence as Clark gave up on his current cabinet and moved to begin picking at the next one over. To say he'd been surprised to find that Clark had a knack for lock picking would be an understatement. But the way Clark went about it was . . . Strange, was probably the best word. Settling back on his heels, Bruce let himself observe as Clark pressed his ear against the metal of the filing cabinet drawers one at a time, steady hands making quick work with the picks that looked too delicate for his hands to wield so efficiently. He had all three drawers popped open in less than thirty seconds. 

“Where does a farm boy like you learn tricks like that?” Bruce mused aloud as he turned back to his own work. 

Clark laughed in the darkness. “We were all teenagers, once,” he hummed, cryptic as ever.

“Nineteen is still technically a teenager,” Bruce reminded. His current drawer looked even less prosperous than the previous, and he took a moment to rest his forehead against the cool metal lip of it, exasperation both for the task and the company running thick in his veins. Though perhaps one of those tinged towards a tad more indulgent than the other. “Also,” he decided to add for good measure, shaking his right wrist out absentmindedly, “I never got up to any breaking and entering as a teenager.”

“That I can prove.” He could practically hear the smile in Clark's tone.

“That you can prove,” Bruce agreed. He shoved the cabinet drawer closed, an old familiar memory nudging at the back of his mind with the recollection of wayward youth. His eyes fell upon the desk. It was definitely old, the wood of it a solid blackwood timber that shifted into highlights of burgundy along the whorling designs of the legs. 

At a museum gala, someone had once showed him the underside of an equally well-used desk. “ _It’s always these old ones_ ,” she’d said in his ear as they laid beneath it, side by side while she curled careful fingers against small ingrains of the wood from below. “ _There’s always a catch. Like this_.” And then something had clicked, a secret compartment shaking a cough of dust down upon them, and her smile had turned Cheshire-smug in the low light leaking out from under the door. “ _Purr-fect_.”

He shook the memory out of his head as he made his way over to Silas Stone’s desk, his eyes already skimming all the best places that could conceal something like that. He could feel Clark’s eyes on him, ever curious, as he fell into an army crawl to wiggle his way underneath and roll over on his back. There was nothing outwardly out of place at first glance, but he shifted aside the tangles of out-of-date desktop wires around just to make sure. Clark had dropped down into his visible line of sight, one hand on the surface of the desk as he leaned against the empty chair to peek at Bruce’s investigations. “Isn’t there a scene like this in _National Treasure_ or something?” he asked, tilting his flashlight up to illuminate the area Bruce was currently staring intently at. They worked in tandem without discussion, Clark careful to keep the low, red beam of his light on whichever direction Bruce tilted his head. But there wasn’t anything to find. Bruce growled and nudged Clark’s legs out of the way with his knees, sliding out a bit to hook deft fingers into the lowest drawers from the underside. 

Clark’s head tilted, an echo to the faintest sound of something clicking out of place, and Bruce sat up just far enough to shoot him a triumphant smirk. “Which side?”

“Left,” Clark said. “My left.”

Bruce shimmied out further, still on his back, and craned his neck to the side as he slowly eased the drawer Clark had indicated out. There was a smooth, barely there indent to the grain on the underside of it, the perfect shape for an index finger, and he pressed the pad of his to it to gently slide back the panel of wood. 

Clark’s hand darted out to catch a small, black flash drive that tumbled free. He sat back, holding it up to a shaft of moonlight filtering through the windows as Bruce rolled out from under the desk. “Huh. You were right, Lex doesn’t do paper trails,” he whispered.

The harsh lines of the LexCorp logo sat almost like a brand in the metal of the drive, shallow and sharp. Bruce leaned over and plucked it from Clark’s grasp, earning a reproachful, “ _Hey_!” for his troubles. He all but fell into the chair with unrepressed eagerness, fingers already hovering over the keyboard while Clark pushed himself to his feet. “So, what was that about anyone being able to get into the professor database?”

Clark’s gaze darted towards the deserted hallway behind them. “We really should just take it and leave,” he warned. The way he leaned into Bruce’s space in the next heartbeat was a sharp contradiction to his words. “Someone is going to notice that broken window sooner or later.”

“Well I wasn’t the one who broke it,” Bruce groused. He tapped the shift bar impatiently. “Just give me the username, and I can take it from there.”

Eyes rolling, Clark shouldered him aside a bit to type it in. His eyebrows arched into his hairline as Bruce pecked out a total of just four potential passwords before he apparently managed to light upon the correct one, and the lock screen shifted over to the desktop without further fanfare. The flash drive was slid into one of the ports, and Clark settled his weight solidly against the back of the chair as Bruce pulled open a veritable nest of files. “Is it encrypted?” he asked, skimming over folders that seemed at first glance to be named with just random letter jumbles. 

“Some sort of lab shorthand,” Bruce murmured. He tabbed through a few of them, mouth creasing into a small frown. A series of image files spread out across the screen, small enough that they had defaulted to the basic icon. Bruce double-clicked one to fill the screen.

Clark’s breath brushed the back of his neck as he leaned forward to get a better look. “A diagram of some sort?” 

It was definitely . . . Something, Bruce surmised with a prickle of unease. A set of four colored rings, filled with carefully inlaid beads of similar tints along each one encircled a solid dot at the center. He pulled up the next one, the design markedly more familiar. “The first one must be an atom,” he decided, flipping between them and stopping on the second image while the idea sunk in. “Because this one, this one is definitely some kind of chemical compound.” The fact that he didn’t immediately recognize either of them made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 

The next picture was some sort of spreadsheet. “Fracture, Cleavage, Diaphaneity, Specific Gravity?” Clark read aloud. His voice cracked slightly, “Radiation Reading?”

A sudden sense of dread coiled in Bruce’s gut, and he disengaged the flash drive without any preamble. “I don’t know if this is what you’re looking for, but it’s definitely weird,” he said, the drive slid and safely clasped away into one of the tactical pockets on his hip. “Do you want to keep checking the rest of cabinets, or-”

Clark’s hand slapped over his mouth, and Bruce nearly bit off his own tongue as he was roughly dragged under the desk. Wide-eyed, the other man kept his gaze over his shoulder, and Bruce’s breath heaved sharply in through his nose as the sound of voices reached his ears. They were indistinct still, the reverberation in them suggesting they were coming from the stairwell. He lifted a hand to pry Clark's fingers away from his face and leaned out from the shelter of the desk to peer out at the still darkened hallway. Somewhere in the back of his mind he acknowledged Clark's hand settling against his upper arm as he did so, taking the brunt of his weight effortlessly while Bruce strained to see through the shadows. He ducked back beneath the desk, forehead almost colliding with Clark's as he held up two fingers in askance between them, one eyebrow raised. Clark shook his head, and held up a contradicting three. _Shit_. 

“We still have time,” Clark whispered, voice barely more than a hush. “They're on the west stairwell.” 

He fell silent as Bruce leaned out into the open again. “But not the east one?” Bruce surmised. No flashlight beams cut through the hallways. Yet. With so little space between them, he didn’t even need to look up to feel Clark shake his head. He should ask how he knew. The voices were still distant, merely a low echo down empty hallways, too far away to tell the exact direction. A slight pressure against his arm urged Bruce to lean back against the leg of the desk, out of sight from the doorway once more. He should ask. But when he tilted his head up to meet Clark’s eyes, the words died on the tip of his tongue. Clark’s lips parted as if he'd heard them anyways, the inhale shallow to match the flicker of fear that was quickly shuttered behind one of his usual unreadable looks. 

Bruce sighed and pressed the brunt of his right arm up between them, elbow digging into Clark’s shoulder so he could get his wrist, and Diana’s bracelet into view as his fingers unlocked the clasp. To his surprise, closer inspection revealed that the cord wasn't sealed with fire, but rather was wound into an intricate sort of knot he couldn't name around the base of the trident of the clasp. “I can get us out of here,” Bruce found himself saying as the knot seemed to eagerly unravel with just a couple twists of the cord, “but I need your help.” The cord pulled apart into long, elegant loops that pooled effortlessly across the arm he held between them. “I need you to trust me.”

“I do,” Clark whispered. 

Bruce held his breath, the sudden realization that Clark knew the difference between lying and omitting the truth digging its claws into his chest with a vengeance. Yes, he trusted him . . . But not enough. He ducked his head as he remembered how to breathe again, the inhale rattling through him. No, not enough. He bit his lip and fisted a hand into the curling strands of the cord and watched the moonlight glint through it like the thrum of a heartbeat.

Not enough. 

_Not yet_.

Flicking open one of the pockets on the tactical belt, he dug out a handful of smoke balls. They weren't anything fancy, the same sort anyone could get at a party store or fireworks stand in the summer, but they'd be more than enough to fool a couple of campus security guards. “Light these, and throw them down the west stairwell before they get to the top.”

Clark's eyes widened, but he held out his hand to take the smoke balls regardless. “Then what?”

“Then meet me at the east stairwell.”

“There's no way they left the window we came in through unguarded,” Clark warned. 

Bruce arched an eyebrow, a smirk curling in one corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I figured. Did you know the upper windows in the stairwells open for fire ladder access?” With that he ducked out from under the desk, the golden length of paracord tossed across a shoulder. “What?” he asked as he caught Clark's incredulous stare, “Did you really not have a contingency plan if our exit was compromised?”

“I . . .” Clark faltered, his features scrunching into a frown. “The plan I did have didn't involve a rope.”

“Paracord,” Bruce corrected. “What were you gonna do, jump from the sixth floor?” Time was ticking steadily away while they wasted it arguing, and Bruce paced towards the door in the hopes that Clark would follow. “You'll have about thirty seconds, max, after you set those off until they realize they're just fireworks,” he warned as Clark craned his head around the doorframe to glance at the stairwell. “You have to make it across the entire building in that time.”

Clark nodded. “How much time do you need before then?”

“I'd ask for a minute, but I don't think I'll get it.” Bruce rolled his shoulders, “Assuming you take all thirty seconds to get to the east side, do you think I can get another twenty on top of that?” 

“I can't make any promises,” Clark whispered.

With their flashlights off, no light other than the faint glow of the moon penetrated the halls. Clark’s hand had settled into the space between Bruce’s shoulder blades as they stood side by side, and the tap of an index finger against his spine made Bruce turn his head to catch sight of a beam of light cutting through the darkness of the west stairwell. Time was up. “Try not to get hurt,” Bruce said lightly, and then he was gone, ducking away from Clark’s touch and darting down the hall to the opposite stairwell. 

The slick tile of the lab building did little for his traction, and the heels of his shoes squeaked against the floor as he turned one corner, then another until the open pass to the stairs came into sight.

Fifteen seconds.

He was too far away now to smell the smoke balls, but he could hear the alarmed shouts that must have followed Clark throwing them down the stairs. Bruce dug his fingers into the catches of the window and heaved it upward, heedless of the way the frame creaked ominously from disuse. Diana’s paracord all but unfurled from where he had it coiled over his shoulder as he did so, pooling around his feet as he snagged his fist around the end of it and turned to tie it into a tight bowline across two rungs of the metal railing. The other end was snatched up in the next heartbeat, and Bruce wound it into the tactical belt and tied it off into a figure eight retrace. It was far from ideal, and he brushed off all the thoughts of how horribly wrong everything could go as he hauled himself over the windowsill and into the open night air. 

Thirty seconds. 

He grounded himself with his heels on the sill, one arm still inside the stairwell, palm pressed against the glass pane, and the other gripping the paracord with gloved fingers. His own heartbeat thrummed in his ears, but the adrenaline licked like fire through his veins. Shouting staccatoed down the hallways, and Bruce only had a breathless second of warning before Clark careened into the stairwell wide-eyed and shouting, “That didn’t work!” 

Forty seconds.

Clark leapt, hands outstretched, and Bruce let go of the windowpane and let himself fall backwards just as Clark’s weight hit him. Arms settled heavy across his shoulders as they plummeted, and Bruce fumbled to grasp hold of the paracord with both hands. His legs swung out as he found his grip, and his feet hit the bricks of the wall and repelled them back out again before gravity finally tugged them down. A huff of breath tickled the shell of Bruce’s ear as they landed harshly on the sidewalk, and he rolled with the impact until he was sitting up.

The paracord had tangled around his arm in the fall, and held it aloft as Clark scrambled to his feet and reached up to give the taut line of it a tug. With an audible twang, the cord snaked out of the open window six stories up and fell with languid loops into Bruce's lap.

“I have . . . So many questions?” Clark said, each syllable rising in pitch. 

Bruce could think of a few dozen himself, the number one being how they hadn’t died when Clark crashed into him. He’d felt his weight, solid as anything, against his body when they’d collided. It had pushed them outwards from the window. But somehow, Bruce had been able to get his grip on the paracord before they’d fallen, had been able to rappel them off the side of the building halfway down to lessen the impact. He’d meant for them to go down one at a time, there was no way the cord should have been able to take their combined weight, no way gravity should have . . . His shoulder ached, but it was a miracle that it hadn’t been ripped right out of the socket with the way the paracord had tangled around his arm. 

The beam of a flashlight blinded him before Clark silhouetted himself in front of him, his back to it. “Run!” he urged, hauling Bruce to his feet by the front of his turtleneck. 

Between the campus buildings, the grass was slick with autumn dew, bristling with the first licks of frost, and Bruce snapped a hand out to catch Clark’s wrist before he could leave the sidewalk to dart through it. Instead, he tugged him across the actual walkways, around the side of the next building over, and then doubled back around to the lab, one side over from where they’d broken the window to get in. “Are you nuts?” Clark gasped as Bruce pulled him over to flatten themselves against the bricks.

Bruce let go of him to continue the tedious task of rolling the paracord up around his wrist, gathering up what was left of it still trailing on the ground so that he could settle it into the shadow of the building beside him. “No. They probably just think we’re some dumb college kids playing a prank. The idea that we would circle back around to hide in the exact place we started will never even cross their minds.” He tied off the paracord’s ends with a simple loop and tugged his sleeve down over it. “Lois was right though, you are reckless.” He didn’t even need to look up to feel the scowl Clark was leveling at him. “I don’t know how you managed to survive this long flying solo. I mean, really? Breaking the window with a rock? You’re a heathen.”

“You’re the one who tried to parkour down from the sixth story,” Clark countered. “With a rope you unraveled from a _bracelet_.”

“And it worked.” The fact that Bruce had no idea how it had worked wasn’t important, at least not at that moment. “I’m also the one who found the flash drive.”

“And immediately wanted to dig through it! If I hadn’t heard the guards we would have been-”

“My point is, Lois was right-”

“For the love of-”

“-we make a good team.”

He couldn’t help but feel smug as Clark audibly faltered, whatever expletive he’d been about to hurl coming out as a choked, “ _What_?” 

People, Bruce decided in that same moment, weren’t puzzles to be solved. He couldn’t pick them apart, strew the pieces around, and decipher them without consequence. Clark’s reaction, the strangled disbelief, was entirely too human. It was relief and awe rolled into a tight bundle of air and emotion, muddying the space between them in a way that couldn’t be observed. The gravity that had tugged them outward, then settled solely against Bruce’s chest rather than pulled them down when they’d fallen, was the same. Unreadable. Undefinable. Unexplainable. He glanced up, meeting Clark’s wide eyes with a smile that would normally be too ragged for his comfort.

Omission wasn’t the same as lying. It was more defensive, ingrained, an instinct wrought from a lifetime of fear. Bruce himself was guilty of it. It lay in his firm handshakes and plastered smiles, the distance he held so carefully between himself and others even though the majority of his secrets were public. People weren’t puzzles.

And Clark didn’t trust him.

Yet.

Trust was earned. 

“I think we make a good team. You’re recklessness, and my resourcefulness, it evens out,” he continued, his gaze never faltering. 

He couldn’t crack Clark’s secrets because they couldn’t be torn from him.

They had to be given. 

He had to earn them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really struggled with this chapter. I'm pretty sure every scene was rewritten at least three times, and there's almost as many cut words are there are posted ones. Bruce and Hal's talk, for example, originally took place while Bruce taught Hal some Tai Chi. Anyways, hopefully the result is better than what was scrapped, especially the last bits. Pretty sure I tossed out about eight or nine different iterations of Clark and Bruce's escape from the lab building. Yikes. 
> 
> Luckily next chapter is a much calmer one, with adventures in maybe ghost hunting?
> 
> Oh, and this chapter's title comes from the song Timebomb by Walk The Moon.
> 
> As always, thanks so much for the comments! They really motivate me to keep on pushing through this fic when I get stuck :)


	6. Only One Of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hal makes a new friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Time for a Hal chapter," I said. "It'll be easy since he's not as emotionally constipated."
> 
> And then I remembered that Hal is instead more of an emotional whirlwind and it turned into 11k words 
> 
> Oops?
> 
> Also I think my high school chemistry teacher would have a stroke if she knew how much chemistry shit I've had to read for this fic. It's a good contrast to that big ol' failing grade I got in the class :/

They’d been gone for four hours.

And okay, see, the thing was Hal knew he shouldn’t get too worked up about it. For one thing, he was pretty certain that the campus didn’t employ anyone more dangerous than the standard, doughy mall cop for security. And for another, he was also equally certain that Bruce Wayne was about as likely to be caught as a cat covered in grease. He was too clever, too slippery, and definitely held an alarming number of sharp and pointy objects hidden on his person. 

On the other hand, Hal trusted Clark even less than he could throw him, which was an amount only quantifiable with a big fat negative sign in front of it. 

It wasn’t really that he didn’t trust Bruce’s judgement, the dude’s business was (mostly) his own. It was more like Clark just made him feel . . . Off balance. Like he was only ever able to see him out of the corners of his eyes or in the reflection of a funhouse mirror, fleeting and distorted in a way left him profoundly wary. And he couldn’t get a grip on _why_. 

His thumb dug into the home button of his phone for what must have been the hundredth time in the last few hours, eyes narrowing as it lit up briefly to reveal the time. A sinking sensation swept through his stomach again. Rationally, he was able to see that he was . . . Well, the first word that came to mind didn’t sit well enough to be entirely correct. 

And at the very least, jealousy was unbecoming. 

His faults, he knew, made up a list that was at least a mile long. He was impulsive, brash, crass, and wildly quick to anger. And maybe the reason he was never able to find sure footing was because he was so bogged down by his flaws that it made the allure of the sky more of a home than solid earth had ever been. So yeah, maybe he was a little jealous, but that wasn’t the be all end all of the wicked flare of unease and anger that bubbled in him every time he flicked his phone back on to find the hour even later. 

The point was that when Hal had been all those things, had been rash and rude and come at Bruce with his hackles raised and his teeth bared, Bruce had just laughed and said, “ _I’d like to see you try_.” As if all he had had to do was blink to brush off Hal’s long ingrained defenses to see something real underneath.

Possessive, Hal thought darkly as he dropped his phone onto his mattress to instead dig his nails into the opposite wrist, crescent shapes forming across faint old scars. That was a better word than jealous. It was of course just as annoying an emotion as jealousy, just as irrational and, quite frankly, unearned. They’d known each other for a week, a fucking _week_.

It was still a week longer than Hal had ever really let himself know anyone outside of his own family.

Maybe that was it, the novelty of it, that lead to him sitting on his bed at just after three in the morning. He was Prometheus, cupping his palms around the first sparks of a fire that he’d never had a chance to share before. 

Hal groaned and let himself fall backwards across the mattress, the heels of his hands digging into his eyelids as he closed them. Patience had never been a virtue of his, and what little of it, if any, that he did have had worn thin hours ago. They should have been back by now, and the fact that they weren’t only served to cultivate a sick swirl of dread that balled up in his throat. He pushed back against it, fiercely disappointed that he’d let it well up in the first place. If he could still embrace the sky after it had once crashed down on him and taken away his heart in a ball of fire, he could find peace with this too. 

It was normal to worry, even if the situation itself was far from ordinary. It was just a part of caring about people, a reaction to having been able to wear his heart clearly on his sleeve for the first time in his life. It was normal. He was _allowed_. 

He was, however, not allowed to wrap his hands around Clark’s neck when he came back, so he needed to remember how to breathe before they did. Because they would, he had little doubt about that, even if that knowledge did nothing to quell his nerves. Maybe Bruce was right and the number of C-rate shark movies he watched was getting to his head. The real world didn’t play out like a film strip, there was almost no reason to think they would be anything other than fine once he took the time to mull over it with a more level head. 

A long, slow breath was dragged in through his nose and then out through his mouth before he opened his eyes and fumbled across the sheets for his phone to check the time again. 

The door banged open, and Hal promptly dropped his phone dead center on his face from where he’d been holding it overhead. Wincing, he pushed himself up just in time to glimpse Bruce and Clark stumbling rather raucously into the room. They swayed over the threshold, laughing, and Bruce kicked the door closed with a heel as he leaned his weight into Clark’s side. Hal opened his mouth to ask what the actual fuck was wrong with them, getting so obviously wasted like that, but let the scathing remark die on his tongue as they both straightened up as soon as the door clicked shut.

It was like watching a cloud roll away from the sun, languidly slow for a second as the pair peeled apart, mouths set into matching grim frowns as they made their way to the middle of the room. Clark stopped there, turning to stare unfocused at the door, then the walls, the floor, in quick succession, almost unseeing in his bizarre intensity. Bruce continued on to the window and braced his hands against the frame for a moment, peering out of it into the dimly lit expanse of the campus, before he tugged the curtains closed hard enough to rattle them at the rungs. 

“I don’t think we were followed,” he said with a glance over his shoulder to Clark, who nodded as if he’d come to the same conclusion just by glaring at the floor. 

Hal slid off the bed, stepping between them with that same level of impulsive, brash-headed fire that had gotten him into this mess in the first place. “Jesus Christ,” he snapped, his back pointedly turned to Clark. “Is that why you’re so late?”

Bruce cocked an eyebrow, and Hal grit his teeth as he saw him glance over him at Clark before he spoke. _God damnit_. “We might have gotten in a bit over our heads.” Behind Hal, Clark snorted, though Hal couldn’t read if it was done in disagreement or as an expression of the admission being an understatement. 

“You’ve been gone for _four hours_ ,” Hal hissed. He was thankful when Bruce’s eyes softened just a touch, the closest thing he knew he would get to an apology. Or second closest, he thought, as Bruce clapped a hand down on his shoulder as he passed on the way to his bed. “What the hell even happened to you guys?”

“We fell out a window,” Clark said then, and Hal couldn’t help but wheel around to gape at him.

“Wha-”

“We _rappelled_ out of a window,” Bruce corrected as he tugged his turtleneck over his head and tossed it to the side. Hal blinked at the sight of a golden cord wound across his body over his undershirt, slung around one shoulder and across his chest with the coils of the lower side tucked into the waistband of his jeans. “We didn’t fall.” The cord too was removed and put aside, though with much more care than the turtleneck had been. “After that, it was necessary to put on a bit of a show and make ourselves seen being typical college students.” The gloves came off next, and almost as soon as they did Hal had to swallow back bile as they peeled back to reveal angry, red welts across Bruce’s palms.

He stepped aside as Clark shouldered past him to catch one of Bruce’s wrists and examine the marks. The skin had split in places, and time had dried the blood into dark smears across his lifeline. None of them said anything, the loudest sound in the room Clark’s ragged inhale as his fingers tightened around Bruce’s wrist. 

“We’re going to need better equipment,” Bruce remarked, as if it was nothing, and Hal stumbled forward to lean against one of Bruce’s bedposts just for something to anchor himself to. 

“ _We_ won’t be doing this again,” Clark whispered. The anger in his gaze was terrifying, and Hal looked away from it even as he realized that the only person Clark was angry with was himself. “A storage shed fire isn’t worth this.”

“You and I both know that this is bigger than that,” Bruce said levelly. Hal fixed his gaze on the now curtained window, suddenly cold with the feeling like he was in the middle of something he shouldn’t be. “And I can make my own decisions on what I will and won’t do.” Clark released him and paced across the room and back again, breathing out harshly through his nose. “You don’t get to dictate that,” Bruce went on. 

“I’m not trying to-” Clark cut his own exclamation short, and Hal finally chanced a glance at them as he pulled himself up to sit on the bottom corner of Bruce’s mattress. He’d lifted a hand to run his fingers through his hair, and Hal squinted at the sight of him shaking his head like he was scolding himself. “You know,” he said wryly, a grim smile gracing his lips as he looked up at Bruce, “This is why people say to keep business and pleasure separate.” Hal rolled his eyes.

“Oh, yes,” Bruce said, his hands on his hips, “I fondly recall the part of that old idiom that warned against the hazards of it resulting in rope burns.” He sighed then, fingers clenching for a heartbeat before he grimaced at how the motion pulled at his raw skin. “I’m not mad that you’re concerned, Clark,” he said after a pause. 

“I know,” Clark murmured. 

“Okay,” Hal cut in, if only because there was only so much of this he could take at three in the morning. “Let’s keep that Star Wars shit to a minimum in the dorm, okay?” He turned his attention fully to Bruce, “There’s a first aid kit under the sink in the bathroom.” 

Apparently, that was all the dismissal Clark needed, as in the next second he had hooked a hand into Bruce’s tactical belt and tugged him close enough that they stood toe to toe as he flipped open one of the pockets and pulled out a slim, metal flash drive. Hal frowned as he caught sight of the LexCorp logo branded into the side of it. “You still planning to be out of town tomorrow?” he asked, voice pitched low as if the room wasn’t the size of a matchbox and Hal wasn’t literally two feet away. 

“It’ll look better if I am,” Bruce confirmed. “But I’ll be back tomorrow night.”

“Try and at least get a little sleep then,” Clark said. “I have some things to take care of too, so are you opposed to me dropping this off with Barry for the weekend?”

“He’ll probably decipher those diagrams faster than we can anyways,” Bruce conceded.

And with that, Clark was gone, the flash drive tucked into a back pocket before he waved them both goodbye and left the room significantly quieter than he’d arrived. Bruce stared after him for a moment before he let himself uncoil, slumping back against the side of his bed next to Hal as he ran an unsteady thumb over one of his reddened palms. 

“I was worried,” Hal found himself saying without quite intending to. He shifted, instinctively using a hand to push away a length of the coiled paracord that was brushing against his hip on the bed. 

“It wasn’t my intention to make you worry,” Bruce confessed without meeting his eyes. 

“I should fucking hope not.”

The smile Bruce directed at the floor forced a rush of cold relief to tingle down Hal’s spine. It was sobering to know he at least had this, for now, this quiet honesty that was allowed to slip out almost unnoticed between them. He would burn it into his memory, lest he ever lose it. A bookmark of a time he’d pushed, and for the first time someone had cared enough to push back until they were standing on equal ground.

~~~***~~~

To Hal's infinite annoyance, Bruce was long gone by the time he woke up. Admittedly, it was well past noon, but that was beside the point. At least the guy had been both considerate and modern enough to leave him a text, which Hal read with pursed lips as he pulled his comforter back over his head to shield himself from the afternoon rays of sun that shitty college dorm curtains couldn't block. 

_**Spooky:** Took the bus back to Gotham, I'll be back this evening._

Hal frowned and tried to visualize Bruce sitting on the bus that ran its route around the bay between Gotham and Metropolis, and failed. 

_**Hal:** pics or it didn't happen_

_**Spooky:** Then I guess it didn't happen._

Snorting, Hal rolled over onto his stomach, phone still in hand, and let himself drift off into a state of half consciousness. Outside the sounds of a bustling, campus Saturday pulled at the trails of his partially formed thoughts. He really should go get something to eat, he decided after awhile, the light from his phone revealing that lunch would still be open in the dining hall for another forty minutes. And if Bruce was still intending to drag him out for some sort of apparent ghost hunting bullshit this weekend, he should also put a dent in his homework. One of those things sounded significantly more appealing than the other, and Hal groaned as he threw his comforter off to drag himself to the bathroom. 

The first aid kit was still balanced and open on the corner of the sink, a sudden stark reminder that the night previous hadn’t been a dream. Hal let his eyes fall on the trashcan that was shoved between the sink and the toilet, and then promptly balled up a bunch of toilet paper to toss over the bloody gauze he could see still sitting in it. A shower, he decided with another quick glance at the time, he needed a hot shower.

It wasn’t like worry was a foreign concept to him. Hell, it was practically a god damn affliction. Worry for his father, before . . . Worry for his mother, after. Worry for his siblings. For awhile, worry for himself; that he wouldn’t make it to graduation, either by his inability to shut up and keep his fists down, or by his own hand whenever the world pressed in too heavily around him. The water sluiced in thick rivulets down his back, searingly hot as he tipped his head into the spray and dug his fingers into his hair. It helped, for a moment at least, to ground him enough to get a clear thought to form. No, he was used to worry. He’d just thought he could put a fucking damper on it when he was an entire coast away from his family and putting in his time at school. Fool him once, he supposed. Nothing had ever, of course, gone smoothly in the life of Hal Jordan. It was just like him to get wrapped up in some sort of insane conspiracy the second he tried to live a normal life.

“It’s not like you’re gonna amount to much with a Gen Studies degree, anyways,” he told the tiles dully. “Might as well get mixed up in some shit.”

The problem was that he couldn’t do much. If he got caught doing anything unsightly, it would get back to the base before he could so much as say “No, sir!” and then his mom would be out the government checks he mailed to her, and he’d be lucky not to get anything worse than a dishonorable discharge. He switched off the water with a growl of frustration. No, field work would definitely have to stay a strictly Bruce and Clark endeavor, as horrible a thought as that was. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t find something else to lend a hand with. 

Toweling his hair a little more vigorously than he intended, he plucked his phone up from where he’d discarded it on top of the first aid kit. Bruce and Clark had said they were dropping their info off with someone, right? Hal might have a short attention span, but he was fairly good at picking apart patterns when he really put his mind to it. And he was extraordinarily capable of retaining even the most mundane information for no reason at all. A real jack of all trades sort of talent, his father had once said when he was little and discovered that Hal knew pretty much every phone number jingle on television, every model of plane he could see on the tarmac, and the favorite food of his first grade teacher to bring to her whenever he’d done something extra stupid. His older brother had called it being a straight C student, passable at everything but excellent at nothing, and Hal was fine with that too. 

The point was, maybe there was something he could do, some mediocre expertise he could lend to whatever poor nerd Clark and Bruce were making sit the day away with his nose pressed to a laptop screen. His thumbs tapped at the touch screen as he let the towel slip down around his shoulders in the steam shrouded bathroom. 

_**Hal:** hey, btw, who’s Barry?_

_**Spooky:** Oh, that’s right. He doesn’t ever come to the dining hall, does he?_

_**Hal:** that didn’t answer my question_

_**Spooky:** He’s Clark’s roommate. Why?_

_**Hal:** no reason :3_

_**Spooky:** Please don’t 3 mouth at me, it’s unnerving. Also, leave Barry alone. He needs to work._

_**Hal:** :3c_

~~~***~~~

Balancing a bag of takeout chinese and his beat up old laptop, Hal ascended the stairs with his usual amount of care, which was none. By the time he reached the fifteenth floor, he was however questioning his choices in taking the stairs at all. Elevators were invented for a reason, and no one was currently in the market to appreciate the way his constant use of the stairs gave him fantastic calves. Except the mirror, of course. In his opinion, the line between high self esteem and ego was a set and solid healthy. 

Clark, and apparently Barry's room was in the corner of west hallway of the top floor, all but tucked away. So much so, in fact, that Hal almost passed it right by while he was fumbling with his buzzing phone. Ah, Bruce was calling. Smirking, he dragged his thumb to the icon to send it straight to voicemail. A text followed that before he could even get it into his pocket.

_**Spooky:** Did you order Chinese food on my credit card?_

_**Hal:** no_

_**Spooky:** How did you get my credit card?_

_**Hal:** took a picture of it when you slept in on Thursday while I had to go to class_

_**Hal:** git gud_

He pocketed his phone then and shuffled his laptop more securely under his arm as he raised a hand to rap his knuckles against the wooden door. A crash, shortly followed by a high-pitched yelp echoed from inside the room, and Hal frowned as he heard the telltale sounds of someone scrambling to pick stuff up. And if the muttered, “ _oh for-_ ” that was exclaimed as something much heavier hit the floor was anything to go by, the occupant was quite literally tripping over themselves. Hal waited, wondering if he should knock again or just try and jiggle the handle in case the guy had somehow managed to knock himself out. He was just about to try the latter option when he heard the telltale sound of the chain being fumbled with and the door creaked ajar just far enough for him to catch sight of startlingly bright blue eyes and a mussy, bedhead of blond hair. 

The eyes narrowed for a heartbeat, and then widened just as quickly as they landed on the bag Hal was carrying. “Is that food?” 

Hal blinked, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Chinese,” he confirmed. 

The other man, Barry, he assumed, looked eager for a second before he suddenly pushed on the door a little, causing the small gap he was speaking through to get even smaller. “Wait, why are you bringing me Chinese?”

It was somehow a significantly less suspicious line of questioning than he had expected. And he decided to say so. “You aren't even going to start with asking who I am?”

To his surprise, the crack became even smaller, only the barest glimpse of one of Barry's eyes peeking out now. “No. I know who you are. You're Bruce's roommate, Hal Jordan. Why are you bringing me Chinese.”

Again, Hal brushed off the question. “How do you know who I am, but I don't know who you are?” he challenged. “We haven't met.”

The door slid open a little bit more, just enough for Hal to see Barry raise an eyebrow as he scoffed, “I have _eyes_ , that's how.”

Hal all but bounced on his heels, a wolfish smirk spreading across his face before he could stop it. “ _Oh_?” 

Barry flushed, the spread of strawberry red across his cheeks visible on his pale skin even through the limited view between the frame and the door. “I meant I'm observant!” he sputtered, the words ending in something akin to a croak when Hal just waggled his eyebrows. “I mean I notice things! I-” his head thunked down against the back of the door with a strangled sound, and with that slight tilt of his posture Hal could see that the tips of his ears were red too. “Why are you bringing me Chinese food?” Barry repeated for the third time, albeit significantly shakier than the previous iterations. 

“Can't a guy just swing by with Chinese?” The glare Barry gave him beneath his lashes and with the barest incline of his head where it still rested against the back of the door said no. Hal sighed and shook the arm the laptop was tucked under. “I want to help,” he whispered. “Please.” It was sort of satisfying, watching the way Barry's mouth fell open with a soft pop. God, he loved catching people off guard. Then again, it was also a little bit annoying that the reason he was catching people off guard in this exact moment was because obviously no one had expected him to offer his assistance let alone thought him capable of it. Sheesh. 

After a heartbeat, Barry snapped his mouth closed and then promptly let the door follow suit. Hal rocked back on his heels as he heard the chain clatter through its track and fall loosely against the back of the door before it opened again. Finally it opened fully, and Hal pasted on his most impressive grin before he was promptly yanked inside the room by the front of his shirt, almost dropping the bag of takeout in the process. He yelped as Barry pulled him inside and slammed the door shut behind him. “Jesus Christ!” he snapped, stumbling over himself as Barry pressed his back against the door with a glare. “Can we at least establish a safe word before you get rough?”

The blond flushed, but otherwise ignored the remark. “You can't tell anyone you were here,” he bit out, and Hal immediately froze up at how dark the words came out. The tone was a little too reminiscent of Bruce, he thought as he took in the Barry's stiff posture, the stutter of his chest as he breathed. “Bruce doesn't want you in on this, but I-”

“He what?” 

Barry shook his head, lifting a hand to run unsteady fingers through his already wild hair. “You're military, right? Air Force? LexCorp likes that kind of shit, has its fingers in more government pockets than not. That's why he and Lois settled on Clark for the newspaper interview rather than you. Bruce is-”

“He's what,” Hal interrupted, a hot spark of rage flickering to life in his chest, “worried I'll turn him in? What the actual fu-”

“No! He thinks Luthor will come after you!”

The spark went out, gutted as quickly as it flared. Hal blinked, his words catching harshly in his throat before they could be flung, and he turned quickly away to cross the cluttered room to set down his laptop and the bag of food on one of the beds before he broke something. 

“But I need help,” Barry went on, heedless of Hal's reaction. “I know Bruce is worried that Luthor will, I don't know, try and get his metaphorical claws in you or whatever, but I'm not making any headway on this so far, and if I can't then it really doesn't matter if this goes south because we won't have any leverage of our own and . . .” He drew off, watching as Hal shed his coat and paced towards the far end of the room where the window sat between the wardrobes. “What are you doing?”

“I need some air,” Hal said as he hooked his fingers into the metal around the pane and started to tug it up. “It's hot as fuck in here and if I'm going to have a mild internal crisis I need to be able to breathe.”

Barry was on him in a flash, hands balling into the back of his shirt just as Hal managed to get the window flung open. “No!”

Hal swore, tilting forward with the momentum of Barry colliding with him, and his hand fell forward through empty, outside air for a terrifying second before Barry pulled and their combined weight toppled them over backwards onto the floor. “Fucking hell!” Hal gasped almost as soon as he hit the tile. “Why doesn't your window have a screen!? This is the top floor!” He turned, taking in the stricken look on the face if the other young man. “Hey, okay, don't . . .” His hand moved instinctually to Barry's shoulder. “I'm just gonna look, okay? I won't fall.”

Shaking off Barry's death grip on his shirt, he stood and moved towards the window again, albeit more cautiously. There really wasn't a screen, and when he braced his hands on the frame to lean out far enough to look at where it used to be, he felt a hand curl into the fabric of his shirt again from behind. “It looks like it was taken off. There aren't even any screws, or jagged pieces that might be left over if a storm or something blew it,” he said over his shoulder. “Has it been gone since you moved in?”

Barry frowned, and fingers twisting tighter in the back of Hal's shirt. “I think so. I did move in on Sunday night though, so I don't actually know if it was there on move in day.”

Hal leaned out again. There wasn't a scratch on the frame, at least not one he could see from such a low angle. “No way would the school remove it, it's just an accident waiting to happen.” His gaze shifted to the ground a dizzying fifteen stories below. “And if it was someone last semester, they would have already replaced it.” He ducked back in as Barry gave a light but insistent tug on his shirt. “I'm not afraid of heights,” Hal smirked as he obligingly pulled the window down and secured it shut. “I'm a pilot, you know.”

“Well I'm afraid of watching someone fall from fifteen stories,” Barry countered hoarsely. “Don't worry about the screen. Clark said he already put in a work order about it.”

Hal spun back around to stare out the window, taking in the height with a flick of his gaze. TCU was the tallest building on campus, and with the way the room was situated, westward facing and tucked away in the corner, the only way to get eyes on it was to stand directly underneath and look up, something most people wouldn't be doing.

“I don't think someone took it maliciously,” Barry spoke up, as if reading his mind. “It was gone before Lois wrote the article that riled Luthor up. Besides, Lois's room is missing a screen too. I think a few of them just fell off or something. Clark and I just keep the window closed for now.”

“Lois is on the third floor,” Hal pointed out, “that's a big difference.” But he had nothing else to counter that point, and by the stiff set of Barry's shoulders, he knew that trying to investigate the matter further was just going to end in a fight, and that wasn't the sort of first impression he'd been wanting to make. He sighed, pushing all the accusations that bubbled up in his mind down to be turned in to Bruce later. 

“Alright,” he conceded, holding up his hands in universal surrender. “That's not what I came here for, anyways. I wanted to see what was up with the drive they found last night.”

Barry slumped a little, “Right. Well, don't get your hopes up or nothing, it's not much. A lot of scans of a lab book, and some digitally rendered models and diagrams. Plus,” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder to where Hal's laptop sat on one of the beds, “you can't look at it with that. Bruce and I gutted his laptop this morning, took out the bluetooth transceiver as well as the adaptor and the wireless card. If there's any chance that flash drive transmits data of any kind when it's plugged in, we're not taking it.”

The laptop in question was perched on the pillow of the opposite bed, surrounded by stacks of library books strewn about. Barry climbed up onto the mattress and shoved some of them aside after dog earring the pages they were open to. “Why am I not surprised that the billionaire was willing to ruin a perfectly good computer without a second thought,” Hal griped as he settled in beside him. “Is that why you have all the books too?”

Barry nodded, “Can't risk googling anything. I've been grabbing everything that I can that shares keywords with the documents in here. most of it is chemistry, which I can cover, but some of it is just . . .”

Hal hefted up a volume titled _Nuclear Fallout And The Future Of Mankind_ , “Disturbing?” Hal filled in, tipping the book open across his lap to show off a collection of images of mutated birds taken around Chernobyl. Barry grimaced beside him. 

“. . . Yeah . . .”

Flipping the book closed again, Hal hopped off the bed to grab the takeout bag on the other side of the room. “Well, I can't promise I'll lend to any stellar discoveries, but I can at least keep the research assistant fed and entertained.”

Barry laughed, taking the bag and digging through it to divide up the contents. “I'm sure I can find a better use for you than that,” he said, and Hal grinned. “I meant academically,” Barry amended without pause. 

“Biology _is_ academic,” Hal smirked.

“Then you can have the books about the effects of radioactive material on living organisms,” Barry deadpanned, though Hal noted that the tips of his ears were getting a little pink again. He pulled out a graphing paper lab book from the stack of library volumes and flipped it open to an already half-filled page of messy handwriting, “And I'll focus on this.”

Hal glanced up from the lo mein he'd snagged for himself to a diagram on the screen of Bruce's gutted laptop. “Thas'a atom,” he said around a mouthful of noodles. 

Barry nodded, “Yeah, and not a very interesting one at that. Gas, not super common but still available in trace elements in the atmosphere. Number 36 on the table, so it's already been discovered.” Diligently, Hal filed that information into the back of his brain and took another bite of noodles while Barry flicked the cursor over to a different image file. “But then we have this.”

“Molecule,” Hal said. He handed the box of noodles to Barry, who dug in without further prompting and with gusto. “You don't recognize it?”

“It's not labeled,” Barry said defensively. “Do you know how many molecules exist naturally alone? Not counting synthetic or hypothesized stuff?”

“A fuck ton,” Hal replied. “Alright, what about the radioactive crap?” Barry flipped to a series of lab notes that almost immediately made Hal’s head spin. “Okay, that's all shorthand and I don't speak nerd.”

“Unfortunately it's not regular ‘nerd’ either,” Barry informed. “I can't read all of it because it's using a set of keywords for the substances involved and and a few of their, I'm guessing, more unsavory reactions that are basically nonsense to me. What I can read is a list of mutational effects that I'd like to try and cross reference with known ones.” He leaned into Hal's space and tapped the cover of the book Hal had set aside earlier. “Grab a lab book and copy down my notes, then we can get started.”

“Voluntary homework on the weekend,” Hal grumbled despite the smile that curled across his face. “Bruce better thank me.”

“He's going to be horrified, actually,” Barry reminded.

“Ah,” Hal scoffed, “he doesn't have to worry about me.”

The thought, however, warmed him considerably. 

~~~***~~~

Hal woke to the sound of a window sliding open.

He'd always been a light sleeper; exploding ear syndrome had latched onto him pretty quick after that day on the airfield and had never quite let go. But the sound of a window rattling in its frame as it was pulled open, then shut again, was a new one. He peeked open an eye, blinking sleep from it once, twice, before he could make out the figure standing between the room's twin wardrobes. Quietly, he shifted the book on his chest to the side so he could sit up fully, ignoring the crick in his neck from having fallen asleep at the end of Barry's bed with his shoulders against the wall. Barry was curled up around his pillow, knees tucked to his chest and a pen still in his hand where it rested on an open page of graphing paper.

The figure in the room turned towards him when Hal moved, and he froze.

“Hal.”

Hal knew that voice, and he let himself relax, if only a little. Just because he was pretty sure his distaste for Clark was personal didn't mean he had to like the guy. He wasn't about to start shit on the dude's own turf though, that would just be rude.

“Did you guys mess with the window?” Clark whispered.

Hal sat up fully again, his heart picking up tempo. “Was it open?”

“A little.”

Hal sagged, “Right. I mean, I did open it, but I didn't know it was broken. Barry freaked out a little, we must not have closed it all the way.” He glanced up, goosebumps rising along his arms as he let out a low, nervous laugh. “It's fine though, right? Not like anyone could get in from that high up.” It slipped out, really, born of the palpable tension in the suddenly chilled air. They really must not have shut the window well, it was much cooler in the room in the midnight darkness than it had been even before they dozed off. But it wasn't the drop in temperature that stilled him. It was Clark, staring at him with the most indiscernible look on his face. Hal thought he was pretty good at reading people, but that set the hair on the back of his neck on end. 

If he didn't know better, he would have said that for a heartbeat, Clark looked afraid. No . . . He looked terrified. The expression, fleeting as it was, quickly shuttered behind a quirk of a smile. “This is the fifteenth floor, Hal,” he said softly, almost like it was an admonishment. “No one is getting in that way.” 

Still, Hal didn't miss the way he glanced at the window again, concern radiating from him even in profile, his jaw set and his eyebrows furrowed. Something about it made Hal's stomach roil. 

Bruce was right. They were in over their heads.

~~~***~~~

Hal was up bright and early the next morning, sparing Clark's seemingly untouched bed only a glance before he began picking up the remains of the night's fruitless endeavors. He made sure to stack all the books in alphabetical order on Barry's desk, and tucked the laptop and its ominous flash drive away in one of the drawers and out of sight, just in case. Barry only stirred when he tried to take the lab book out from under his head. 

Hal huffed out a breath, a smile tugging at his lips as Barry just pressed his cheek against the paper with renewed vigor. “You need a break,” he muttered, running a hand through blond hair and tipping the other young man's head to the side just enough to slide the book away and let him fall back onto an actual pillow. 

His eyes fell upon the slightly damp paper, momentary distaste falling away beneath the staccatoed uptick in his heartbeat at the sight of a spreadsheet he recognized. 

Fracture. Cleavage. Diaphaneity. Specific Gravity. 

He knew this. 

His thumb and index finger curled around the corner of the left page and he flipped back to Barry's recreation of the molecular structure. God damnit, _he knew this_. The answer sat on the tip of his tongue, but stalled in half-formed thoughts before it could be strung together coherently. 

“You're gonna pop a blood vessel,” a sleepy voice mumbled from the bed. Hal looked over to see Barry staring at him with bleary eyes over the curve of his arm across the pillow. “Don't worry about it, I'll figure it out.”

Hal hummed a noncommittal note. “I'm sort of a professional worrier as of late. Also,” he pointed an accusing finger down at the blond, who cocked a knowing, if tired grin at him, “I'm not gonna have a stroke just from thinking.”

“Coulda fooled me.” He squawked as Hal snapped the lab book closed and promptly dropped it onto his head.

“I'm gonna go talk to Bruce,” Hal said, standing with a stretch of his arms over his head. “You want breakfast?” He added after a moment of consideration. 

Barry pushed the lab book aside and propped himself up on his elbows. “Are you offering?” Hal raised an eyebrow, and Barry sputtered, “I mean, are you offering to get me some.” His ears were reddening. “Breakfast,” he added. “From the dining hall,” for good measure.

“Whatever floats your boat dude,” Hal teased. “Since clearly someone has to feed you.”

“Look, just because I don't have time to eat in the dining hall doesn't mean I starve,” Barry retorted hotly. “I don't need a . . . A maid, or whatever.”

“Well of course not,” Hal smirked, already heading towards the door in case Barry decided to start throwing things, “if you want a maid, you'll have to shell out for the outfit. Oh! Make sure it has stockings.”

He ducked out into the hall to the tune of Barry burying his face in his pillow and letting loose a string of muffled swears. 

~~~**~~~

It was way too early to go wandering around the campus in search of Bruce. Luckily, Hal found him in the parking lot just past the TCU, so at least Barry's pancakes wouldn't get too cold in the little cardboard container Hal had balanced on his open palm. Bruce was crouched down next to a rather impressive looking motorcycle. It was slim, and lower to the ground than Hal's old Yamaha. In fact, he was pretty sure that it was a custom. He wolf whistled as he approached, pleased when Bruce glared at him over his shoulder, a smudge of oil across his chin where he'd been resting it on his hand. 

“What, you despised the idea of having to cling to me during the ride, so you went and bought a snazzy special bike?” Hal accused lightly, running a finger of his free hand over the black metal with only slightly faux reverence. 

“I've had it for awhile,” Bruce explained. Hal set the box of pancakes down on the seat in order to lean his weight against the bike and lean over it to watch Bruce work on the other side. “Although maybe it's a bit of a Ship of Theseus with how many modifications it's gone through by now.”

Hal blinked, “Wait. Are you saying you _made_ this thing? You didn't just throw money at someone to put it together for you?”

Bruce glanced up at him with a wry smile, “I'm working on a mechanical engineering degree, Hal. Don't act so surprised.”

“I'm more . . . Concerned than surprised,” Hal admitted. “You having access to the tools to create anything motorized seems dangerous.”

The smile curved into an outright smirk, “Oh?”

“You're just goading me now,” Hal huffed, his arms folding over his chest as Bruce stood and dusted himself off to hop up onto the seat of the bike, pilfering the pancake box as he went. When Bruce didn't make to reply, and instead tried to pry open the box, Hal snatched it out of his hands and snapped. “Fine! How fast does it go?”

“So fast that if I said it out loud I'd get arrested,” Bruce intoned cockily. 

Hal scowled at him. “And you're not gonna let me ride it, are you.”

“You guessed correctly.”

“That's fine,” Hal shrugged, earning a one of Bruce's trademarked combinations of a frown and a raised eyebrow. “That fits exactly into my plans for the day, actually.”

“That sounds ominous.” 

“Look, buddy, between the two of us I think anything I do is automatically less ominous than you simply breathing.”

~~~***~~~

“This is a really bad idea,” Barry whispered hoarsely as Hal zipped up the front of the borrowed leather jacket over his chest and flipped up the collar on it. “Like, such a bad idea. I have so many things to live for, like finishing deciphering all that stuff on the flashdrive. Or graduating college. Or-” 

Whatever else was going to be added to that list was muffled as Hal popped the a helmet down over his head. “You're not going to die,” he deadpanned, “Don't be so dramatic.”

Barry fumbled the visor open and glared at him, “Motorcycles are incredibly dangerous. Fourteen percent of traffic accidents are-”

Hal moved to fix the collar of the leather jacket again, making sure to brush his fingers over the nape of Barry's neck as he did so. Barry cut off with a strangled sound, and Hal smirked. “You're wearing my best leather jacket, and my least scuffed up helmet. You'll be fine.”

“The fact that you have a _least_ scuffed up helmet is not even the littlest bit comforting.”

Beside them, Bruce was already sitting in the front of the seat of his bike, looking simultaneously bored and highly put out by everything happening around him. When Hal dared to make a gesture at him as if asking for help, he just flipped the visor on his own helmet down in response. On the back of the seat, Diana, dressed in short denim shorts, and a matching jacket, merely scoffed when Hal turned his pleading eyes to her. “There is no glory to be won in cowardice.”

Barry whirled on her, pointing, “I'm not afraid! I have a sense of self preservation, and a heavy dislike for going off on wild adventures with people I barely know!”

“You know me,” Bruce pointed out, “And Hal.”

“I met Hal _yesterday_ ,” Barry corrected. He ignored Hal's exasperated sigh as the other man gave up on keeping his attention and went to go straddle his Yamaha. “And now I'm being distracted from my work, and kidnapped into, into-”

“Into a wonderful adventure of Hal forcing his favorite people to get a little fresh air,” Hal finished hotly. He wasn't sure how Barry managed to both blanch and flush at the same time, but that certainly was what happened. “Get on the bike, Barry.”

“I am proud to be considered a favorite,” Diana boasted, a hand to her chest.

Bruce turned to pass her a helmet, “Don't be. He clearly forms attachments inadvisably fast.”

“It's called being a good judge of character and not having a stick up my ass,” Hal retorted as he popped his own helmet on. He glanced up as Barry stood over him for a heartbeat the blond's fingers twisted into the front of the loaned leather jacket. “Well?”

“If you drive like a bat out of hell, I'm going to be pissed,” Barry muttered, but he climbed on anyways. 

Hal huffed out a laugh and reached back to tug at the Barry's wrists and hook his arms around his middle. “No, that's Bruce's job.”

“Correct,” Bruce agreed, kicking the engine to purring life. Diana gave a pleased little gasp behind him and excitedly mirrored Barry's pose, though she was significantly less stiff about looping her arms around Bruce. “I'll take point,” he said then, and Hal tried not to role is eyes. 

His own Yamaha's turnover was a little less dramatic, if only because his baby was old. Barry still squealed though, and Hal was thankful his answering laugh was muffled by the helmet as his companion's previously loose hold on him instantly turned into a full on death grip. The bike was certainly nothing to scoff at either. And at the very least it was definitely louder than Bruce's. Though the look on Bruce's face when Hal stuck his tongue out and revved the engine conveyed how much of a non-perk he thought that was. At least Diana looked mildly impressed. Emphasis on mildly. Bruce peeled out of the parking lot much the way Hal had expected he would, with flagrant disregard for traffic laws. Hal reached down to give the hands curled in tight fists against his abdomen what he hoped was a reassuring pat before following suit. 

Fuck, he didn't realize how much he needed this until they had taken off. He didn't have quite as little respect for the rules of the road as Bruce did, but he still followed fairly hot on his metaphorical heels. The asphalt roared by underneath them, short yellow lines blurring into one long one as Bruce led them away from busy roads and into narrower side streets. The further they got from traffic, from residential neighborhoods as the suburb outside Metropolis slowly bled into open acres, the faster Bruce pushed them. Hal wasn't willing to test if his dad's old Yamaha could match the same speeds, but he kept the other bike in his sights. Still, hitting sixty miles an hour, the wind tugging at his bomber jacket, the thrum of the engine underneath him that lulled its tune into his very bones, it was almost like flying. He could feel, even through the layers of fabric, how wildly Barry's heart was hammering, each staccato of it echoing into his own chest and mirroring the shaking of the arms around his sides. As the next stoplight loomed in the distance, Hal let Bruce speed ahead and blast through the yellow before he allowed himself to slow and wait as it ticked into red.

“Hey,” he urged, his heels bumping against the road as he stabilized the bike in its full stop beneath them. “You're not going to enjoy the ride if you don't open your eyes, you know.” Behind him, Barry just shook his head, the weight of his helmet a sturdy pressure where it was settled between Hal's shoulder blades. “Look, I'd sooner fall off myself before I let anything happen to my passenger.”

To his surprise, Barry's arms only around him tightened at that notion. “That does _not_ make me feel any better,” he hissed out over a ragged breath. 

“Then we can turn back,” Hal relented instead. Up ahead he could see that Bruce had pulled off to the side of the road a ways away, waiting for them. The light was still red. “I brought you out here to have fun, not be scared half to death.” It wasn't what he wanted, but the way Barry was shaking was starting to gnaw a guilty hole in his stomach. He knew what it was like to be terrified, and pushing that level of emotion upon anyone wasn't something he relished in. But Barry's grip on him didn't lessen. “I'm a pilot, you know,” he said, almost conversationally. “So was my dad.”

Barry stiffened behind him, and Hal could feel his shoulders hunch against his back. “Was?” 

Hal hummed an affirming note, and Barry's fingers twisted harshly into the fabric of his bomber jacket over his stomach. “I'm a pretty good pilot, too. So, you know, it's a little insulting that you seem to think I'm going to crash on the _ground_ , on my dad's old _motorcycle_ that I’ve been driving since I was twelve just because I go a little fast.”

Barry's chin, helmet and all, thunked down hard into the soft space between his shoulder and his neck. Hal bit back a wince. “Fine. I'll keep my eyes open. But that's it. If we die though, I will find you in whatever the closest parallel dimension is and I will strangle you.”

Hal smirked as he flipped up his visor, “Kinky. Was that supposed to be a threat? Cause, you know, I'm down to try anything at least once,” he finished with a wink. Barry made a weird, choked noise, but Hal had already turned back to the road ahead, the light flashing to green just as he pulled his feet up and hit the gas. 

The blond's grip on him never loosened, if anything, it got tighter, and Hal was mildly concerned he would have a weird bruise across his waist from it later. But true to his word, Barry kept his head up, shifting his attention from one side to the next every once in awhile as they moved into more and more open road. His heart still hammered wildly, and Hal felt it pick up in tempo every time they rounded a corner, or sped up, and he let his eyes fall closed to focus on it for a moment. It was difficult to tell the difference between terror and excitement, but . . .

“Want to go a little faster?” He asked over the wind. 

Something like exhilaration, wild and fervent, sputtered to life in his chest when he felt Barry nod against his shoulder. 

They couldn't give Bruce a run for his money (he was pretty sure no one could, actually), but he could at the very least pretend. And more importantly, he knew Bruce would let him. He revved his engine loudly, a warning to his fellow driver that Bruce heeded with the barest incline of his chin as Hal drew up beside him. Behind him, Diana looked positively thirsty at the prospect of even a farce of a competition, and leaned tauntingly back on the seat, one arm slung over Bruce's shoulder in obvious challenge. With nothing but open land and the occasional dotted farmstead around them, Hal could clearly see the last sharp turn ahead, the halfway mark in the final mile leg of their journey. Whoever got to the inside of that first would be able to gain a lead. He lifted a hand and flashed four fingers twice, then formed an O with his fingers. 

Eighty miles per hour max, just to be fair. 

Bruce nodded, and Hal could just barely make out the almost feral grin beneath the visor of his helmet. 

Hal revved his engine again, and they took off, streaking down the last stretch of road towards the curve ahead. He felt more so than heard Barry's sharp intake of breath, and the way he held it as his knees clenched against Hal's thighs as they zipped into the space between Bruce and the grass lining the edge of of the road. His speedometer dragged its dial upwards, sixty-five, seventy. He leaned, and with how tightly he still clung, Barry leveled out almost parallel to the ground right along with him. He heard the exhale this time, even over the rush of the wheels grinding on the black tar and the strained growl of the engine as they barreled around the turn. And, more importantly, he heard it turn into a rolling laugh as they righted again. 

Bruce, of course, pulled ahead despite Hal's initial gain, and he and Diana shot them twin, two-fingered salutes as they passed by. Hal didn't care though, he really didn't, because once they'd come to a stop outside the foreboding, ivy choked gates with a wrought iron W in the center, the only thing he could focus on was Barry, shaking not with fear, but with laughter against his back. 

~~~***~~~

“This place is a dump,” Hal muttered as they trudged gingerly through the first floor of what must have once been an elaborate, three story mansion. Bruce had called it a summer home when they'd first pried open the old doors, and Hal had threatened to beat him. Even said in a monotone, his words bounced around the empty halls, and echoed back at him in whispered repetition of, “ _dump, dump, dump_ . . .” 

Bruce leveled him with a withering glare, “Do you say that about all your friends’ houses?”

Diana settled against Hal's side, her hand on his shoulder as she leaned into his space and flashed a smile at Bruce, all teeth. “Sorry,” she said. “That was rude of us. We're quite enjoying this tour of your rubbish adobe.”

On Hal's other side, Barry covered a snort of laughter by turning his head into the collar of the borrowed coat he still wore. Bruce just rolled his eyes and stalked ahead of them. 

Hal observed his roommate with unveiled interest as Bruce paced the length of every room on the first floor, uncaring of any dust he disturbed. His eyes flickered over every inch of the place, almost as if he was measuring it, sketching out new blueprints in his mind. A few times he stopped, tapping the toes of one shoe or another against the floor and tilting his head to the side, listening for something Hal could neither hear nor decipher. Eventually, curiosity got the better of him, and he stuffed his hands in his pockets and came forward to practically plant himself in Bruce's shadow that had been cast out over the aging hardwood floors from the large windows that decorated most of the rooms. He tapped the tip of his own boot against the floor and cocked a questioning eyebrow.

Bruce obliged him without hesitation, and Hal let that small recognition thrill in his chest. “The paperwork said it was my grandfather's, built during the height of the Cold War.”

Barry was on them in a heartbeat, eyes wide, “You think there's a bunker under here!?”

“Oh no, I know there is.” He tapped the toes of his left shoe against the wood, and this time Hal heard the faint, hollow way the sound reverberated back at them. “The only question is how to access it. But it's probably not safe to do so until we can confirm the rest of the building is structurally sound. In fact that's the next step.” He turned a bit so he could see out the window, gaze shifting between the sprawling fields that bled into dense woods no more than an acre out, and the people crowded eagerly around him. “Diana and I are lighter on our feet, so we'll check out the upper floors. Hal, Barry, I'd like the two of you to do a perimeter sweep. The front gate and the attached fence clearly need work, since vandals seem to get into the property on a fairly regular basis.” He swept his arm out to gesture towards the doorway of the room they were in, and how the light from the window perfectly illuminated the giant dick someone had spray painted onto the hallway wall beyond. “And I'd put money on people entering the area through the woods as well.”

Hal frowned, “You think I'm too much of a bumbling idiot to go upstairs?” 

“No,” Diana soothed. “But your innate foolhardy nature increases the risk of the rest of us falling through the floor.” Hal muttered something profane under his breath, but smirked when Diana merely tutted at him and kissed his cheek. “Besides,” she whispered in his ear before she pulled away, “Someone else wants your company today.” Hal barely refrained from whipping around, and instead carefully slid his gaze over towards the window with the barest tilt of his head, Diana still a pleasant weight on his side. Barry was standing to Bruce's right rather than Hal's now, arms folded tightly over his chest as he gazed pointedly through the cracked glass out over the treeline. There was a high flush on his cheeks, not quite spreading to the tips of his ears this time, and Hal studied the concentrated frown he wore with mild curiosity.

Huh.

“Come on, Barry,” he found himself saying, “you heard them. Us disasters are being relegated outside.”

Barry glanced at him over his shoulder. “Speak for yourself,” he shot back, and though his tone was light Hal could see the same hesitation in his eyes that had lingered back in the campus parking lot. He held out a hand towards him, and Diana slid away to go whisper something conspiratorial into Bruce's ear. “You all act like I've never been outside in my life,” Barry continued hotly. Beside him, Bruce raised a wan eyebrow.

“I mean, at the very least you need more sun,” Hal grinned. “Hell, dude, we didn't even meet until yesterday because you don't even leave your room to go to the dining hall.”

“I've been _busy_ ,” Barry retorted, “Some of us are actually dedicated to our studies.” Still, despite the way he eyed the extended hand like it was going to bite him, he hesitantly took it. 

Hal felt an absolute beam of a smile split his face before he could stop it, and swept the blond out of the room with a holler of, “Don't wait up!” to Bruce over his shoulder, not sticking around long enough to receive whatever retort that would scorn out of his roommate. 

Barry had fallen dead silent, and stayed that way until they made their way back over the threshold of the building's entrance. The afternoon sunlight was blinding, but did little to warm the cooler autumn air that whipped up from the distant coast beyond Metropolis and made waves in the dense, untamed tangle of weeds and dying grass that curled around their feet. Further out, past the shadows of the decaying manor, the fields stretched with brilliant streaks of gold out towards the boundaries of the wild woods beyond. Barry’s hand had fallen slack in his grip, and Hal released it as his eyes were drawn towards the trees. 

The only sound was the wind. He couldn't even make out Diana and Bruce's low tones from inside the house anymore. Just the drawl of the breeze, tugging at his bomber, his hands, stinging against his cheek with an insistent pull that almost sounded like . . .

_Hal_

His eyes snapped open, he didn't even realize he'd closed them, and he shot a bewildered look at Barry. But Barry wasn't . . . Barry clearly hadn't spoken, his gaze was trained on the treeline again, a cautious frown marring his features. “What is it?” Hal asked quietly.

Barry squinted out at something in the distance. “The trees,” he pointed, and Hal followed the movement with a turn of his head. “Just there.” It was hard to make out through the glaring sunlight, and Hal lifted a hand to shield his eyes as he stared out over the field to the place indicated. Where Barry had pointed, the trees were shorter, and unnaturally so at that. The canopy of them had been torn away, leaving the tops bent and broken, visible even through the leaves and thin new branches that had sprung up to replace the damage. 

The wind pulled at them, and for a moment Hal felt like it was sinking into his very bones, dragging him forward from the inside out.

_Hal_

“Bar,” Hal swallowed, the nickname slipping out of him like a plea, “Ghosts aren't real, right?” 

At the very least the incredulous look Barry gave him was reassuring, if a little insulting. “No, of course not. The majority of ghost sightings can be explained by natural, if unusual phenomena. Did Bruce say this place was haunted or something?”

“Yeah,” Hal admitted, “but he said it sarcastically, so I didn't put any stock in it.” Until right this fucking second, he thought uneasily. Conspiracies he was up for, ghosts and supernatural bullshit, not so much.

He jolted out of his thoughts as Barry's hand hooked around his elbow and pulled, out into the fields and towards the place where the tops of the trees had been torn away. “Let's check it out,” the other man grinned giddily.

“Oh, so motorcycles are scary, but ghosts and disturbances in the natural order are fine?”

“One of those is a statistic, the other isn't real, and the last one is _science_ ,” Barry said matter-of-factly. “Plus, Bruce specifically asked us to check for disturbances.”

The wind plucked at him, and Hal hesitated for a stuttering heartbeat before he pushed against it and started forward at Barry's urging. It wasn't like they were in space, if something bad happened, Bruce and Diana would hear them scream. 

The treeline loomed up before them a lot quicker than Hal had anticipated, the grass growing longer with every stride they took towards it until it was brushing up against their knees. Barry had released his arm as they neared the first line of trunks, but Hal made sure to stay within reach of the blond, his hands fisting nervously at his sides while Barry craned his head back to see the tattered branches high overhead. Whatever had crashed through them, it had been awhile ago, at least a year if the new growth in the midst of the wreckage was anything to go by.

His own thoughts stopped him cold, thick dread coursing through him as he realized the obvious answer. Instinctually, his right hand snapped out, settling against Barry's back with a nudge that urged the blond to step a little closer. “Barry . . . something crashed here.”

Up ahead he could see the damage to the tree tops continued, cutting them down lower and lower until they disappeared entirely beyond his line of sight. Barry, his blue eyes wide, had dropped under Hal's hand to peer at the ground beneath their feet. Hal crouched down beside him as Barry pursed his lips and plucked something up from the undergrowth. He held it gingerly between his forefinger and thumb and inhaled sharply. “Oh hell yeah it did,” he whispered, almost dazed. “Here, hold out your hand.”

Hal did as he was told, shock rippling through him as Barry dropped what had looked like a tiny grey rock into his palm, but when it landed his hand dipped with the unexpected weight. “What the actual fuck,” Hal breathed. It was cold to the touch, much colder than an ordinary stone, and it felt smooth beneath the pads of his fingers even where it was worn down in uneven bumps. Barry's eyes were alight, blazing with excitement in a way that was palpable enough it was almost contagious. Hal smiled despite the way his heart still with rattled disquietly in his chest. 

“It's a meteorite,” Barry said quickly. “Look at the ground, there must be hundreds of them.”

And indeed there were. Now that they were kneeling there together in the grass, Hal could see the glint of them. Most seemed to be no bigger than the head of a pin, but here and there other ones poking out of the dirt, dime-sized like the one in his hand. “Holy shit.”

“It must have broken up in the atmosphere, and what was left of it burned its way down here,” Barry motioned to the line of damage to the canopy overhead as he spoke. 

It was the weight of the thing that threw him off, Hal decided as he stood up again, letting Barry immerse himself in plucking up the larger pieces he could see from the forest floor. It had to be something about the pressure of space that made it seem so heavy, so much like it held its own gravity . . .

He froze.

Fracture. Cleavage. Diaphaneity. _Specific Gravity_ , a term for the mass of . . .

“It’s a rock,” Hal gasped. “Barry, it's a rock!”

Barry got to his feet, pocketing a small handful of his finds before he turned and stared at Hal like he had three heads. “I mean, yeah, technically meteorites are rocks but-”

“No!” Hal grabbed him by the shoulders, “I mean, yes! They are, but I'm talking about the molecule on the flashdrive! It's a rock!”

Barry's face scrunched up, “It can't be. Its main atom is a noble gas. It's already ridiculous enough that it's in a compound at all, but the amount of pressure it would take to form it into an actual solid . . .”

“Space amounts of pressure?” Hal went on, breathless. “Planets amount of pressure?” 

Barry's mouth dropped open. “Oh my god . . . No wonder it's radioactive. No wonder Luthor wants his hands on it.”

Hal let go of Barry with one hand to run his fingers through his hair, eyes finding the tear in the canopy again. “What the fuck. What would you even call it?”

“-Ite.” Barry whispered. “It's from space, it fell from the sky. The suffix has to be -ite.”

“Kryptonite.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long, the length hopefully makes up for it. As per usual my notes way underestimated how many words it would take to lead into and showcase every uncountable moment of foreshadowing and minuscule character growth. 
> 
> Despite my top author's note, Hal is the type of character I can more easily sink into the mindset of. I think I just have a penchant for writing cocky disasters. So this was fun. Bruce will pick up the main POV again next chapter, but both Hal and Lois will get individual chapters like this interspersed throughout whenever it's best plotwise. 
> 
> I've loved reading all your comments *rubs hands together* especially those that tried to speculate about some of the little hints they caught on to. Those are always my favorite ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


	7. Everything Moves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world isn't his to fix.
> 
> Bruce tries his damndest anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *tosses chapter out into the void*
> 
> I'm done. DONE. If I don't just post this it will never be deemed good enough by myself and I'll keep picking at it forever. So have it.
> 
> Sorry for the delay, I write this fic during slow times at work and May is our busy month so bleh.

“I think you have something of mine,” Diana said into his ear, and Bruce turned his head just enough to meet her eyes. Hal and Barry were already tripping their way out of the room, away from the crumbling remains of his grandfather's summer manor to check out the grounds beyond. Diana leaned back a little, her hands folded across his shoulder, her back to the window, and watched them go with thinly veiled interest before she turned her attention back to him. “Shall we?”

Like . . . Well, like an alarming majority of things in Bruce's life as of late, Diana was an oddity. But unlike Clark, he wouldn't classify anything she did as a mystery. Everything, from the words she spoke to the movements she made, was precise, unpractised but natural, as though every thought and action was just one drop of water flowing into the next. She stepped over debris on the floor of the manor with only the most minute flick of her gaze to her footing, and when they reached the rickety staircase to the second story, she didn't pause to test its strength before she practically leapt up them. Bruce did. The fifth step gave an extremely ominous creak, and he skipped over it as he went. Perhaps though, the thing that intrigued him most about Diana was that she never seemed to be disingenuous. In fact, he was fairly certain that if she had any secrets to divulge, she would do so if only he were to ask.

He wouldn't.

As they made their way down a long hallway that branched off into various studies and bedrooms, he unzipped his coat to pull out the cord he had wrapped around his torso from shoulder to waist. Even in the dusty streams of light that leaked through broken windows, it still shone almost gold when he began wrapping it into smaller coils around his hand. Ahead of him, Diana turned her head over her shoulder for the briefest moment to regard the repetitive motion before she broke the silence.

“I trust it was of use to you.”

A statement, Bruce noted, not a question. He flexed the palm that held the loose loops of the paracord, the barest hint of his still raw skin peeking out from beneath the gold of it. “I expected worse, honestly,” he admitted when she whirled around to grasp at his hand. “We fell out of a sixth floor window.” She began unwinding the cord from him and he grew silent, watching as she took each unbound line of it and started threading it into the braid he had taken apart two nights before. She made quick work of doing so, and he found himself fishing for the discarded clasps in his pocket to finish it after only a few minutes. Once it was complete, she hooked it back over her own wrist, and the act pulled out a breath from his lungs with the relief of a lifted weight that was no longer his to carry.

Diana rocked back on her heels, still as defiantly unaware of social boundaries in her closeness as she ran the same hand through her hair and swept it back. Her eyes will still on his palm, despite the fact that he had let it fall back to his side. “Does it hurt?” she asked, and it seemed, somehow, like a rhetorical question. So he didn't answer. “You bear it with pride.”

And that was . . . Well, he wasn't sure why he was so surprised to hear the truth from her, save for perhaps the fact he hadn't quite realized it was so until it was said aloud. He flexed his fingers against his palms and bit back the wince the motion would draw out of a lesser man. “The pride is for the accomplishments,” he said eventually. “The injury is just . . .”

“A mark of it,” Diana finished.

Bruce shook his head slightly, “Yes. But not . . . Not a necessary one. On top of that,” he lifted his hand into the light, unperturbed when her fingers found his outstretched ones and tangled with them, her eyebrows furrowed. “This gives me away. I'll have to be careful to hide them until it heals. I need to . . . I need to be better,” he decided resolutely. “This was supposed to be a simple operation, and it was almost a disaster.” When he looked up again, he was startled by how bright Diana's gaze was, the slow, sure curve of her smile as if she'd been waiting for him to say something along those lines.

Her fingers squeezed his. “I thought as much,” she murmured. “You have the potential, you know,” she said, her words rooting him in place with their surety. “I can see it.”

“The potential for what?”

“To be great.”

The finality of the statement was not lost on him, as if she was already privy to a destiny written in the stars he hadn't yet seen. “Lots of people are great,” he said eventually, lowly.

“Lots of people have potential to be,” Diana conceded easily. “But not all _will_ be. You need to want it, and you need the right influence.”

And he did want it, whatever the hell it was. She had been as vague as she ever was, but he knew without question that this unstable, currently insurmountable offer of _something_ was his goal. He was standing on the precipice of it, the edge of a building, a rooftop, with the whole world stretching out beneath his feat and all he had to do was step out into the air and fall. And fall he would, he realized with an unsteady, sinking sensation in his stomach, because this wasn't just a single step.

It was a leap.

“And you're that influence?” He asked wryly.

Diana arched an eyebrow, “I can be. No, I would _prefer_ to be,” she amended. There was something in the way her gaze faltered, for just a heartbeat, her eyes shifting to the side as she tugged her bottom lip up between her teeth. Fear, he realized dully. He pulled his hands out of her grip the instant the thought formed in his head. Afraid for him? Or of him.

Her eyes widened, her posture stiffening as he stepped back. “Let me think about it,” he said before she could speak. He didn't want to know. “Just . . . Let me think about it. Please.” for a moment he was sure she would protest, as if it was a now and only now sort of choice and he didn't have the rest of his life ahead of him. And hell, maybe he didn't. But the silence between them persisted, her shocked expression settling into soft acceptance and he felt the tight uncertainty in his chest uncoil.

“Of course,” she said, but he had no time to bask in that assurance, as her words were almost drowned out by someone outside screaming, “Bruce!” at the top of their lungs.

Bruce whirled almost on instinct, already careening down the hall and bounding down the stairs before he even registered that it was Barry's voice. He skidded into the foyer of the manor, the echo of the bunker hidden beneath so much louder under running soles than his earlier cursory taps. Barry was standing in the doorway, one of the double doors thrown wide and his hair windswept, cheeks flushed.

“Bruce,” he panted, and Bruce came to a stop before him, willing his heart rate to slow at the sight of Barry’s grin. Behind him, Hal was leaning heavily against one of the porch columns, chest heaving. “Bruce, the flash drive compound, it's a meteorite.”

He'd only had a chance to briefly look at Barry and Hal's work that morning, but he knew without question that they right. Still he couldn't help but utter a startled, disbelieving, “What?”

“Solid krypton,” Hal said behind Barry. “Well, mostly. There's obviously a bunch of other shit in there, but the primary element is krypton.”

“Now, knowing that,” Barry continued as if Hal's finished declaration was his to elaborate on, “we can make several assumptions. With the radioactive properties alone, if Luthor were a good person we could make a guess that he was using it for, I don't know, clean energy. Nuclear fusion, or what have you.”

“But he’s not,” Hal cut in.

“Probably not,” Barry agreed. “His track record is more, hmm, weapons based . . .” He drew off with a grimace, the finger he'd held up while spinning the ideas out falling to point at Bruce, “. . . Which is why Silas Stone probably had it. He has a pretty wide repertoire with the various sciences, but he likes his weapons tech more than anything else.”

Hal gasped, “Wait, do you think he’s making a ray gun!?”

Barry's entire face scrunched up as he spun on his heel to face Hal, “What? No. That's not even a thing outside of science fiction.”

“Space rock!” Hal protested. “Space rocks are science fiction! _Kryptonite_ was science fiction until it crash landed here on earth!” He threw his hands up, “If you told some stick-up-the-ass scientist yesterday that solid fucking krypton was real, you would have been _laughed at_! Why is a ray gun the limit?”

“Cause this isn't _Star Trek_!” Barry snapped. “If Lexcorp is manufacturing ray guns I'll eat my entire lab book of notes!”

“Children,” Diana sighed at the same time Bruce stuck out a hand between the pair with a muttered, “For the love of . . .”

Deaf to either of those admonishments, Barry barreled on. “What we need to do to figure out what it’s being used for is examine the chemical makeup as a whole. If we can recreate the compound, even as a liquid, we can better see for ourselves-”

“We're not doing that.” This time, Bruce's interruption was vehement, and accompanied by a firm hand to the blond's shoulder. Barry looked over at him, startled. “We don't know if it's only stable because it's a solid, or how radioactive it would be as a liquid. We'll continue working with what we have on the flash drive.”

“It's not gonna lead to much of anywhere. Most of the stuff that isn't tests on the kryptonite itself is in a lab shorthand I don't know. If they're doing something other than studying its properties, I don't think we'll be able to gleen it from the notes on the drive,” Barry admitted.

“Is that what we're calling it?” Bruce asked. “Kryptonite?”

Barry shrugged. “It sounds cool.”

Bruce tilted his head slightly in Hal's direction, half expecting either an agreement or another smart remark about the scifi properties of the stuff, but was met with only silence. When he glanced over fully Hal was half turned away, his body angled towards the conversation but his eyes gazing out over the field towards the trees. Even at that distance, Bruce could swear he could see the reflection of the barely gilded leaves in his eyes. And though they were all staring at him now, Hal still didn't acknowledge them.

“Hal?” Barry said tentatively.

Hal blinked once, twice, and then shook his head roughly before he turned to look at them. “Yeah?”

Unease, the kind he was starting to become used to, latched its cold fingers in Bruce’s chest. “Are you alright?” he asked.

Diana had moved quietly to Hal's other side, and when he glanced at her, she caught his chin in her hand and frowned. “Your eyes . . . You weren't with us for a moment there, were you?”

Hal shook her off with another jarring jerk of his head. “It's fine. I'm fine,” the latter statement was directed to Bruce. “I just thought I heard something is all.”

The wind rolled by, rippling the grass in long, low gusts that carried out towards the treeline, and no matter how much Bruce strained to catch even the barest whisper of a sound over it, he heard nothing. And yet . . . He watched out of the corners of his eyes as Hal tilted his head, just so, just slightly, listening.

“Come on,” Bruce urged, his hand finding Hal's back to nudge him towards the steps of the porch. “Let's get out of here.”

They headed out onto the long gravel driveway towards the mansion’s gates, back to the bikes parked on the roadside beyond, and away from whatever siren song has struck its chords in Hal's ears.

~~~***~~~

The first days of September very quickly rolled into the last, and the final beams of summer bled into an autumn that burst across the campus in orange gilded leaves and the crinkling of grass underfoot. And with fall came the inevitable lull of the Iustita students settling into their routines, and as the college grew colder with the seasons, it also grew quieter. These changes, Bruce noted with distaste, seemed to seep into everything. Almost as soon as they'd made a breakthrough with the flash drive did the trail go completely cold. Most of the notes that could be deciphered were about the kryptonite, as Barry had dubbed it, and any that weren't were written in a lab shorthand that was both unfamiliar and illegibly messy.

It plagued at him to realize that what had initially seemed to be a tremendous find had in fact only been crumbs. At that point he had begun to wonder if the crumbs had been left to discovery intentionally, and that worried him even more. Equally troubling, perhaps, was that Clark had clearly come to a similar conclusion, and seemed completely disillusioned by it. And that meant, of course, that Clark too became quiet.

He also became increasingly likely to be found in either his own or Bruce's dorm room, pouring over the handwritten copies of the flash drive notes like they would only reveal their secrets to him if he just glared at them _hard enough_. This was exactly where Bruce found him after lunch on the last Friday of September, tucked into Bruce's desk with one of the graphing paper books and his nose almost pressed against the page. His glasses sat unattended on the windowsill between the desks, and Bruce made a beeline for them after tossing his bag on his bed.

As far as glasses went, they were very plain; just black, plastic, wide rectangular frames. Bruce unfolded them and held them up to the light streaming through the window, watching the way it refracted across the thin, flat lenses. Clark barely even glanced up from the page he was fixated on, and merely lifted an eyebrow when Bruce shoved the glasses on his own face and perched on the corner of the desk. “Discovered anything new between yesterday and today?” He asked wryly.

Clark leaned back in his chair, an arm thrown over the back of it. “Don't be mean,” he chided lightly. “You've spent just as much time picking through this as I have.” He tapped a finger against the margins of the page, where Bruce's own notations stood out in small, neat letters penned in blue ink. “What's this bit here about the size of the kryptonite samples?”

Bruce leaned over, letting the glasses slide down the bridge of his nose as he peered down at the aforementioned scrawl. “Oh. Most of the samples they played with seem fairly large. But here on this page and,” He removed Clark's hand from atop the page in question and flipped through to a different one, “and this one, they're using much smaller ones. In fact, it seems like they're using a powdered form, considering they're testing if its soluble and the melting point of it.” He turned to a different page, this one dotted with some fairly impressive crystalline sketches Hal had churned out onto the paper. “According to the Mohs scale, kryptonite sits at a solid ten, and would be fairly difficult to cut, let alone crush. Besides that, I doubt Lex would risk accidentally destroying what little of the stuff he has. Barry has estimated he's obtained only a little more than a pound between all the notes. So if he has finely ground kryptonite, it's likely he found it that way.” He turned to yet another page and jabbed an index finger into some of the coded lab shorthand, “In fact, this note, what little of it we can read, suggests the sample being tested was scraped off of somewhere. Or,” he hedged, pushing Clark's glasses back up his face, “off of some _thing_.”

Clark frowned up at him, “You think whatever it was is what caught Silas's eye?”

“I think whatever it was is the thing that's coded to be utterly indecipherable,” Bruce said darkly. “And whether or not it was to Silas's liking is more concerning than I care to think about.”

Clark's mouth quirked down into an expression that, mixed with the uneasy narrowing of his eyes, made him look faintly like he was going to be sick. “Why?” the word came out so hoarse that Bruce felt his stomach drop.

“Silas is . . .” Bruce hesitated, his hands moving from his lap to settle against the desk behind him and clench across the smooth wood. “He's always had a penchant for technology. To an unhealthy degree,” he added, thinking of Victor. “He's fond of the mechanics of weaponry the most. He's even fonder of puzzles, of technology unknown. He was an expert at dismantling foreign gadgets when they came into military possession. If they're scraping kryptonite off of this . . . Whatever it is, it came from the same place kryptonite itself did.”

“You're scared of aliens,” Clark said blandly, his chin in his hands and one eyebrow arched in disbelief.

Bruce leveled him with a well practiced glare. “Having an innate distrust of the unknown is healthy. It means my curiosity will never outweigh my sense of self preservation. It's not a fear.”

This time, Clark smirked, his posture falling into relaxed slump against the back of the chair. “Sounds like something someone who's scared of aliens would say,” he grinned.

Rolling his eyes, Bruce plucked the pilfered glasses off his own face and passed them over to Clark, who slid them up his nose without comment, still smirking. “I'm more scared of country bumpkins like you,” he decided after a moment's consideration.

Clark, of course, murmured a drawled out, “Bless your heart,” at this that Bruce chose to ignore. If only so as to refrain from mauling someone in his own dorm.

“Speaking of country bumpkins though,” he continued as if he hadn't heard, “I do have to wonder why a certain one I know denied being a hipster when we met.”

“And what makes you think I'm a hipster now?” Clark asked, amusement laced into every word. He tilted his head up, his eyes glinting, almost challenging, behind his glasses, and Bruce knew instantly that he knew _exactly_ why he'd asked. How could he not, when he hadn't stopped Bruce from discovering such a poorly veiled farce just minutes ago.

Emboldened by that realization, Bruce couldn't help but reach out with a hand, tilting Clark's chin up with it so he could look more pointedly into his eyes. “Only hipsters wear fake glasses,” he answered coolly. “But if you're going to continue to claim innocence that you're wearing them for pretentious, aesthetic reasons, I suppose I might have to come up with more nefarious conclusions. So what are they for then?”

Clark, his eyes still bright, whispered, “Oh, they're totally aesthetic,” with such cheek that he immediately dug his heels into the floor in anticipation. And rightly so, as Bruce promptly tried his damndest to shove him off the chair and onto the floor.

~~~***~~~

If there was one thing Bruce had learned while getting his business degree, it was that forward strides were taken through investments. In that regard life was fairly similar. He'd invested his time and money in hand to hand combat training in his youth. He'd invested his future in degrees for a corporation he could not yet lay claim to in anything but name. He'd invested his school days into forging connections he could use later in life.

He'd invested his dreams, those wayward scraps of something more that never quite stopped whispering at the back of his mind, into attending Iustita instead of an ivy league.

And perhaps most importantly, he'd implied that his interest in Victor Stone was just one of many investments. In a way it still was. It was an investment of trust, at the very least. Even if at first utterance it had been made entirely of spite. Because the thing was, Bruce Wayne tried not to put any sort of personal stakes, let alone emotional ones, into his investments. If he failed in an endeavor he had a dozen other plans ready to fall back on. So when he turned the corner in the science building to see Victor and Silas Stone arguing vehemently in the hall and the raw, unbridled fury rose up unbidden in his chest, Bruce knew he'd made a horrible mistake. He'd made an investment he could not afford to lose.

He ducked back around the way he'd come as soon as he registered what was happening, an arm flashing out to pull Barry with him by the back of the blond's hoodie. Thankfully, the brief scuffle that involved seemed to go unnoticed to the people just a dozen feet away, and Bruce settled a warning arm across Barry's chest, their backs to the wall as he strained to glean whatever he could from the low, angry tones beyond.

"I don't know why I even bother with you!" Victor's voice hissed out, and Bruce flinched at how much grief bled into every syllable. "I make arrangements for you every time and you _never_ even try to have the decency to show me even a _modicum_ of that same respect!"

"I'll respect you when you give me something to respect!" Silas snapped.

Beneath his arm Bruce felt a tremble ripple through Barry's body. "Bruce . . ." Barry whispered hoarsely. Bruce shook his head, and Barry's mouth thinned into an agonized frown.

"Then you'll be waiting a long god damn time!" Victor spat.

The hallway fell silent save for the faint echoes of harsh, shaky inhales. Bruce closed his eyes and willed his own heart to stop hammering, lest its tempo urge him to do something drastic even an inherited fortune couldn't pay to cover. Beside him, Barry had raised a hand to dig his fingers into the arm still held firmly across his chest, pinning him in place, and had turned his face away from the direction of the argument as if that would somehow lessen how much of it he heard.

"Go home, Victor."

The sharp intake of breath at the command rattled down the hall. "No. I have stuff to do here."

"Victor."

"I'm not your fucking-"

The retort cut off, and Bruce dared not turn the corner to find out why, only mildly comforted by the fact that anything physical would be audible.

"Your phone," Silas said evenly. "And then you'll go home."

Something was tossed carelessly down the hall, the sound heavy enough to indicate it was probably the backpack Victor had had slung over his shoulder. Barry's fingers clenched against Bruce's forearm.

"You want my jacket too, while you're at it?" Victor bit out. "Not that you'd know it was mine. You don't even know what my jersey number is, do you?" There was another soft thump, likely the jacket, and then the very obvious sound of someone storming off.

Bruce exhaled out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, his grip on Barry loosening. To his surprise, the second he was free the blond simply slid down to the ground, his back still to the wall, and tucked his head down against his knees with a muttered, " _Christ_."

Peeking around the corner finally, Bruce was met with the forlorn sight of Victor's letter jacket laying alone in the hall, Silas having apparently abandoned it to the winds with the same care he'd given to his son's feelings. Bruce stared at it for a long moment before he crossed the hall and plucked it up. The golden pins adorning the letter on the front were askew, and Bruce spent a pointless minute straightening them and tightening the clasps before he folded the coat over his forearm. "Are you okay to go to class?" he asked when he heard Barry stumble to his feet behind him.

"Y-yeah. Of course," Barry stuttered. "Why?"

"One of us needs to be there," Bruce said evenly. "And out of the two of us, you're the most inconspicuous."

Barry arched an eyebrow and folded his arms over his chest. "I feel like I should be insulted by that."

"Don't be. It just means you have a naturally innocent air about you."

He considered that for a moment, then nodded to himself. "Alright. What are you going to do then. Go after Vic?"

"No. That won't do him any good." He tugged his phone out of his pocket, already pulling up Victor's contact information while Barry leaned into his shoulder to see the screen. "If I want to make sure Victor's sports career is taken seriously, I need to start taking it seriously myself. Or at the very least imply to his father that I am." He glanced over at the blond, fingers hovering over the touch screen keys. "Can you pull up the home page for Victor's school?" Barry tapped away at his own phone for a heartbeat before he tilted the screen over for Bruce to see.

"Homecoming game is next Friday," Barry murmured darkly. With his usual absent-minded precision, his hands found the jacket laid out over Bruce's arm, fingers tracing out the halcyon letters of a worn MVP pin. "Didn't you say something about Doctor Stone neglecting his reserved seats to the games before?"

"A gibe I originally made on context clues alone," Bruce admitted. "But now I'd hazard a guess that it was entirely accurate."

Barry grimaced and let his forehead fall to rest against Bruce's shoulder with a heave of a sigh. "I would have given _anything_ to have my parents see me shine at something I loved. Not that the science fair is especially stellar or anything," he added, lifting his gaze just enough to give Bruce a wry grin. "But my dad always liked the pictures I brought him, even if disposable cameras didn't do my poster boards justice."

Bruce hummed in soft agreement. "How many seats should I buy out? Eight?"

Counting on his fingers, Barry frowned and stalled on the seventh. "Uhm . . . Eight? Are you sure? Victor will, hopefully, be playing. So that makes seven?"

"I can count, Barry," Bruce chided lightly. "I'm thinking of inviting someone from out of town. And texting Victor about it, of course."

". . . But Doctor Stone has Victor's phone."

"Oh, I'm well aware."

~~~***~~~

_**Bruce:** What are you up to next Friday?_

_**Asshole:** *finger guns* whatever you want me to be up to, boo!_

_**Bruce:** I know it's a whole coast away, but can you come to Metropolis for a high school football game?_

_**Asshole:** sounds boring but sure_

_**Asshole:** BYOB okay?_

_**Bruce:** NO. It's a high school game._

_**Asshole:** lame. Fine. Are we pissing someone in particular off, or is this just for funsies? And don't lie to me, you never contact me for funsies :,(_

_**Asshole:** oh! Is it Lex?! It is Metropolis after all. But I thought you would want to save that for the party?_

_**Bruce:** Indirectly I'm sure it will end up infuriating Lex anyways. But I had a different target in mind._

_**Bruce:** . . . What party?_

_**Asshole:** ?????????? Babe, didn't you get your invite? Lex is throwing some over the top bash to celebrate the opening of his new Metropolis high rise at the end of next month._

_**Asshole:** it's okay if you didn't tho, you can be my +1 ;p_

_**Asshole:** Hello? Come on, why do you always get to decide when the conversation is over?_

_**Asshole:** you're no fun_

_**Asshole:** whatever. I'll see you friday * 3 *_

_**Asshole:** you love me_

~~~***~~~

_**Bruce:** Barry just let me know you're out sick too. I'll pick up those books from the library on my way back from the clinic and look after them until you feel better._

_**Bruce:** I hope you'll be in good shape for the homecoming game next week. Especially since Oliver Queen just told me he has his flight booked. He's pretty excited to see what I've been bragging about._

_**Victor:** I'll be there._

~~~***~~~

"Can you repeat your name for me, sir?"

Bruce pursed his lips, "Bruce Wayne. I can see it right there on the list of approved people." He reached across the desk to jab a finger into the paper where his name was in fact quite clearly listed just below Victor's. He should know, he set it up to be that way two weeks ago at Victor's request.

The lady behind the desk just narrowed her eyes at him, then at the paper, before snapping her gum between her teeth in obvious disbelief. "Uh-huh. You got an I.D. then, Mr. Wayne?"

Obligingly, and only a little sarcastically, he slid the I.D. he'd already had waiting in his hand over the surface of the desk towards her, watching as she picked it up to study it with frankly unwarranted scrutiny. "I can pull up a collection of magazine cover features if that doesn't seem real enough," he said, a hint of venom bleeding into his tone when she lifted an unamused eyebrow at him. It wasn't that he resented her for doing her job, exactly. In fact, were the situation any different, he would applaud her for it. However, the situation was that it was already four in the afternoon, curfew was in a scant few hours, and Bruce Wayne hadn't been alone in the presence of a child since he was a child himself, and that had barely been a childhood at all. What did kids even like these days? Pizza? Video games? He was pretty sure Chuck E. Cheese went out of business ages ago.

The woman behind the desk handed him his I.D. back, a grimace on her face. "Alright. You can check him out, assuming you can even find the little demon."

Bruce snapped the I.D. out of her hand. "I could report you for speaking that way about a child," he ground out.

She just waved him away, "Sure. And making a complaint like that anywhere else, about _anyone_ else, they would take it very seriously. In this case they'll just add another note to his file." She held her thumb and forefinger as far apart as they would go, clearly indicating the size of the aforementioned file, and Bruce scowled at her.

He didn't have time to contemplate her untimely demise though, not when hands were fisting into the sleeves of his coat as a small body was putting all its weight on his toes with a furious whisper of, "Where's Victor!?"

Bruce blinked and looked down into wide blue eyes. "Billy . . ."

"If he doesn't want to see me anymore," Billy began lowly, almost viciously, "he . . . He should just come tell me himself. I'm not gonna take that shit from you, or anyone. I am so done with people not just telling me outright that they don't-"

"Billy," Bruce gripped him by the upper arms, pushing him back a bit so that the boy was no longer standing on his feet. "He's just grounded." The immediate disbelief that flickered through Billy's eyes snagged at something in Bruce' cheat with a tight vengeance, loosening his grip on the boy so that his thumbs could swipe a line of reassuring pressure before he released him entirely. "I was actually hoping you could help me out with a plan to fix that as soon as possible."

Billy narrowed his eyes up at him, his arms folding over his chest. "What the actual hell do you need the help of a thirteen year old to do? You're _rich_ ," he added pointedly.

"Money doesn't buy knowledge-"

"It can buy people to take your tests for you," Billy interrupted.

". . . Money doesn't buy knowledge," Bruce tried again, somewhat sterner this time, "and I happen to know someone who knows more about which seats to buy for the Titans homecoming game than I do."

Billy's eyes lit up, "I hope you mean me because I totally know the best seats. And with your moolah at my disposal, we can absolutely get them." He paused, holding up a finger, "On one condition though. I get a favor, too." Bruce raised an eyebrow, a silent indication for further explanation, and after a moment of nervous shuffling, Billy produced a worn out looking envelope from his pocket, the address on it worried into fading almost entirely. "The post office doesn't close for another hour . . ." He drew off, turning the envelope around to frown at the dulled and smudged ink. "A new envelope, and a couple of stamps," he decided, his shoulders setting resolutely as he looked back up at Bruce with sudden, steady surety. "And then we can buy the tickets."

It seemed a small enough price to pay.

~~~***~~~

Post offices were probably invented by the devil, Bruce decided as they stood in line. In fact, they were probably staffed by the devil too, because only the devil could consistently find the slowest, most incompetent people alive to run the counters of every post office ever made. He was thankful Billy seemed oblivious to it all, as the kid was standing at the island top to their left and diligently addressing his new envelope entirely from memory. And because curiosity was a disease Bruce suffered through with something akin to pride, and the woman running the counter was still explaining the newest collectable stamps to someone the same way she had been for the last six minutes, he decided to take a peek. "Fawcett City," he read aloud, and Billy craned his head back to glare at him.

"Money doesn't buy manners either, does it," he said crisply.

"If it did, I'd buy you some first," Bruce countered, blinded momentarily by the grin Billy cast him at that. He plucked the envelope up between two fingers, holding it above his head just in case the boy tried to snatch it back. He didn't. "You know it's the twenty-first century, right? You don't have to write a _letter_ to this," he squinted at the name scrawled out in messy handwriting, "Freddy Freeman."

"Oh, you're right," Billy deadpanned. He drew Bruce's gaze back down with the motion of turning his empty pockets inside out, and then offered up his equally empty hands. "Oh my god," he said, utterly monotone, "look."

". . . At what?"

"The _absolute fucktons_ of money I, an orphaned thirteen year old have to buy a cellphone with!"

Bruce frowned, "Do you want one?"

Somehow this made Billy look at him with a new, unparalleled level of incredulity. "Like you said, it's the twenty-first century," he said, "not having one is practically a handicap. Of course I want one. But," he pointed an accusing finger in Bruce's face, "I don't want one out of _pity_. I'm not some Wayne Foundation charity case, so don't even think about it."

"It's not . . ." Bruce faltered, "it wouldn't be pity, Billy. I . . ." He didn't have a word for it, he realized, at least not one he was comfortable with admitting out loud, and he fumbled mentally for some other way to explain the tight sensation in his chest. ". . . Would it . . . Would it make you happy?"

Billy blinked at him, his mouth opening and closing for a second before he folded his arms over his chest, the envelope clutched tightly in one hand. "No one has ever asked me that before," he said thickly.

"Not even Victor?" Bruce said, unable to keep the astonishment out of the question.

The boy's eyes narrowed, his nostrils flaring as his arms dropped to his sides, his free hand balling into a fist. "Victor doesn't _have_ to," he said vehemently, almost venomously. "He's a _kid_ , it's enough that he even gives me the time of day." His chest heaved as he sucked in a shaky breath, " _He's enough_."

Faintly, Bruce couldn't help but wonder if anyone had ever told Victor that before.

He brushed that thought aside for later. "Alright. Well, _I'm_ asking you. Would getting a cellphone make you happy?"

"It wouldn't make me any more unhappy," Billy decided after a pause. It was as equally a sobering statement as his previous one. And, Bruce decided with a fresh rush of fierce conviction, a good enough answer as any, if not the best one.

When they finally got up to the counter to pay he rested his arm across the back of Billy's shoulders as he handed the attendant the money, the brief weight of which he hoped at conveyed even the smallest bit of assurance.

It wasn't pity.

It was everything but.

~~~***~~~

Billy held the phone so gingerly between his fingers that it gave off the impression that he thought it was made of diamonds. He kept smoothing a thumb across the screen protector he had insisted Bruce buy for him, even though Bruce didn't even bother with one himself. The instruction manual lay open on Bruce's lap, a pen clicking in his hand as he starred the parts he thought were important enough for Billy to read through later. Over the low rumble of the chauffered car through the neighborhoods where suburbs bled into Metropolis proper, he kept up a steady stream of one-sided conversation to fill the silence as Billy stared at the phone in his hands.

"I'll give you Victor's number after the game, just so there's no chance of his father getting any texts or calls from you while he has Victor's phone in his possession. I added my number as well as Barry's already, and you said you remembered your friend's home phone number, so that's taken care of. I can't believe you know someone that still has a landline."

"Freddy," Billy said softly. "His name is Freddy."

Bruce diligently filed that information into his brain. "Freddy then. You can call him when you get home, if you'd like. I bought you unlimited minutes and texting, so you don't even have to wait for the letter to get all the way to Fawcett City now."

To his surprise, Billy just shook his head, his fingers clenching around the phone for a moment before he seemed to think better of it, and set it facedown in his lap. "I shouldn't have even written that letter," he whispered. There was a new tension in his shoulders, rippling through him in ways until it clouded his eyes, and he turned his face away to rest his forehead against the glass of the car window. "I shouldn't have let you buy me a phone, either," he added.

"I wanted to buy you the phone," Bruce reiterated.

Again, Billy just shook his head, his bangs dragging across the quickly fogging glass. "You only say that because you don't know me."

"I know you're thirteen," Bruce recited easily. "I know you like football, and that you admire Victor, and that's probably the actual reason you like football moreso than a love of sports. I know you're not keen on authority figures, and have been through seven foster homes in two years."

"Twenty-three."

Bruce stalled, and fell quiet entirely.

"Twenty-three," Billy repeated hoarsely. "That's how many foster homes I've been in total. Fifteen before I was nine. Seven more since I was eleven." There was a gap, Bruce realized as a certain sense of heaviness settled in the air between them. Billy kept his face turned away, forehead pressed to the glass, but Bruce could just make out the reflection of bitter anguish that surged through his expression. "Bruce, I . . . Did something awful."

He remembered the rap sheet the boy had begun to list off on the eve of the office heist, and the way Victor had almost tripped over himself to stop Billy from elaborating on it.

_"Cause we've got punching a guy, kicking a guy, and in one really spectacular case, beating the shit out of a guy with the crutch of the kid he wouldn't lay off of."_

He remembered his own hands around Lex's throat, eleven years old, furious at a year's worth of being cornered in dark hallways, being tossed to the floor, a boot on his chest to pin him to to the cold tile. _Furious_ at the burn marks on Ollie's arms where they'd held him down too, rebuttal for fighting back, for defending him. He remembered the bruises he'd left on Lex's neck, how Lex had laughed at him, his steel grey eyes glinting almost as if he was pleased.

Vengeance, he knew too well, could become all consuming all too quickly.

He remembered getting expelled.

He remembered a long drive, midwestern highways, a golden field, and an offered baseball that had stitched back together the fraying mess inside his chest.

Billy lifted a hand to tangle his fingers into the worn fabric of the blue jersey he always wore over his red hoodie. Clenching, unclenching, a comforting motion against a comforting object to anchor himself.

"A restraining order," Bruce guessed into the thick silence that surrounded them, and Billy's head snapped up, his eyes round with unrepressed fear. "Am I right?"

"They wouldn't stop. . . Everyday, they went out of their way to hurt him. They threw him into the side of a _car_ ," Billy's voice broke, "He couldn't stand back up, and I . . . It was the first time I felt like maybe I could stay where I was, so I was angry. I was so, so _angry_." He scrubbed the heel of his palm over his eyes one at a time, shaking as he did so. "And I didn't regret it," he whispered, "I _don't_ regret it. Those fuckers _deserved_ it. But Freddy, he . . . He was always going on and on about comic book heroes, I thought I was being one, defending him . . . But when I went to help him up he . . ." Billy shook his head, swallowing down shallow breaths as he struggled to get the words out. "He flinched. He was scared. _Of me_." This time the inhale was an unmistakable sob. "The Vasquez's wanted to sell the house to comply with the restraining order. They wanted me to stay. They thought the verdict was unfair. But it wasn't. I was . . . I was the _villain_."

"You were eleven," Bruce said softly.

"Old enough to know better!" Billy snapped. "But I did it anyways! I would do it again! He's . . . He _was_ my brother . . . I would do it again." The last part escaped him in a fierce whisper, unwavering, and Bruce knew it was true.

He shouldn't have come here today, he thought distantly. Bruce Wayne was entirely the wrong person to offer the right words for such a situation. It should be Clark, or Victor, someone whose morals were more unshakable than his own. Someone who wasn't guilty of the exact same shortcomings. "You were eleven," he repeated eventually, surer this time. "And vengeance is . . . It's easy, it's instinctual. It feeds off the emotions of the moment, and twists them."

He didn't regret the bruises on Lex's neck, either.

"How do I untwist them?"

It was a valid question, at the very least, and this time one Bruce thought he had the right response for. Revenge didn't fix anything. Death didn't fix anything, it just ended it. A murderer six feet under wasn't any less criminal. A bully with broken ribs would only see that the violence he wrought upon others existed regardless of his own actions. Bruce leaned back in his seat, his arm falling across the back of the upholstery so that the tips of his fingers carefully brushed against Billy's opposite shoulder. An offer. "By being better," he said. "It takes longer, and it's harder, but all we can really strive to do is be better than the people who hurt us. And," he added when Billy cast him a disbelieving, disheartened look through tear cluttered lashes, "using the tools we have as better people to bring them to justice."

"Justice," Billy echoed uncertainly. Then he snickered, "Oh my god, that sounds so lame!"

"Most things that are good for you are," Bruce lamented. "Like vegetables, and gym class."

"Math," Billy chimed in, "milk."

"Also terrible," Bruce agreed readily. "But the point is . . ." He hesitated, chewing on the inside of his lip for a moment before he continued. "The point is, Billy, that you were eleven years old, and if your brother is even half the sort of hero he admires, he'll forgive you. _You were eleven_ ," he reiterated, because he was eleven and angry once too.

Billy rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes, and Bruce barely suppressed a startled jolt when the boy actually leaned over and into his touch. "Right. So, anyways, what's my spending limit for mobile game microtransactions?" he asked, picking the phone up off his lap to show off an open play store window.

"Zero," Bruce deadpanned.

He still didn't know if he'd said the right thing. But someone had to say it, someone at the very least had to say something, even if it was him. Perhaps especially if it was him. And as Billy tucked himself into Bruce's side to pull up the seating chart for the Titans stadium, he couldn't help but wonder if he'd only said the words he himself had wanted to hear. At the very least they had seemed to soothe the boy's grief, if only for an evening. And perhaps, equally importantly, he had meant what he'd said. He'd spoken his assurances with a deep seated conviction, as if a promise lay within them, carved into his very bones. They could be better, do better.

Maybe that was enough.

~~~***~~~

Up until that point in his life, the exact point where it was just after eight at night on the last Friday of September to be exact, Bruce had been thankful for a lot of things.

He was thankful he'd had nine years with his parents, it was more than a lot of people got. He was thankful for Alfred, and his unwavering patience in raising an absolute hellion of a child that wasn't even his. He was thankful, begrudgingly, for Ollie's loyalty. He was thankful for the opportunities provided for him by upbringing and birth. He was thankful for a weathered, stitched anew baseball tucked between his mattress and the wall.

He was thankful that he'd dropped Billy off before he came back to the dorm to find Mercy goddamn Graves standing outside of the building.

A half hour before he'd contemplated whether or not to get the kid pizza again, or bring him back to the campus to cook something healthier up in the lounge kitchen for him. At the time he felt slightly guilty about the pizza, seeing as it followed a discussion on the importance of vegetables and justice. Now though, now he was infinitely grateful for the persistence of thirteen year olds to live life off of a steady diet of preservatives and cheese.

Technically, he could just walk past her and pretend he either hadn't seen her, or didn't know her from the next stranger over. Except Mercy had always been fairly shrewd, she wasn't her proprietor's shadow for nothing, after all. Feigned nonchalance would probably make her more suspicious than outright confronting her.

With a sigh, Bruce ran his fingers back through his hair, smoothing it out as he straightened his posture and snapped into place a few of the buttons on his blazer. Appearances, especially in instances such as the current predicament, were everything.

Bruce kept his strides even as he rounded the corner and made his way towards the entrance to the TCU, slowing his breathing when Mercy immediately glanced up from her phone to meet his eyes with a venomous curl of her mouth. As always, Bruce mused to himself, she was the very picture of a snake. "Ms. Graves," he said, tossing on that extra, socialite purr to his tone, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but the carnivore smile stayed in place. "Mr. Wayne. I assure you, the pleasure is mine." She reached inside her suit jacket, and Bruce pressed down against the instinctual urge to step back, covering it behind a casual folding of his arms across his chest, the tapping of an impatient finger to his forearm. To his relief, the object she withdrew was a simple white envelope, sealed with the sharp Lexcorp logo and a trail of satin gold ribbon. "Nothing too pressing, today," she said, letting the implication that another day might hold something more ominous hang in the air. "Just an invitation."

She held it out to him between two fingers, and Bruce took his time accepting it from her before he used it to play at stifling a disinterested yawn. "Oh, is that all," he sniffed as he studied the circle of wax. "You could have just sent this in the mail. I already thought I was invited, since Oliver got his days ago." He lifted an eyebrow, "Did you hand deliver his, too?"

He glimpsed her teeth for a moment as her lip curled in instinctive distaste before she schooled her expression once more. "No, just you. You and Ms. Lane, of course," she added.

Bruce's stomach dropped. "Unusual for Lex to invite the press on a by the name basis," he remarked. "Usually he just tosses the party details out to the lot of them like he's feeding the Vasilyevich bears."

Mercy seemed to decide that this statement was better off going unacknowledged. "Do remind Ms. Lane that even with a press pass, she is still a guest and thus allowed to bring a plus one." And with that, she was gone, taking the campus sidewalks in quick, precise steps until she disappeared into the darkened parking lot.

The front doors slammed open almost as soon as she'd vanished, and Bruce turned his head to watch a parade of idiots stumble out into the glow of the low campus streetlights. Well, a parade of idiots and Diana would be more accurate.

"Did you get one too?" Lois asked, breathless as she snatched the envelope out of hands to scowl at the wax seal.

"A ticket, not a press pass," Bruce clarified. "And a plus one, though I suspect that was just common courtesy."

"It's not common courtesy to dole out plus ones for press, though," Clark muttered, his eyes fixed on the parking lot. "So much for hoping Lex would look the other way about the break in."

Hal grabbed at the envelope next and pried off the seal with a flick of his fingers in order to unfurl the trifold invitation that lay within. Barry leaned against his shoulder squinting to read the curling print in the low evening light. "Guy likes to make his very obvious traps showy, doesn't he," Hal said before passing the parchment over the blond to inspect closer.

"It's not a trap so much as a taunt for a repeat performance, that's why he extended an invitation to the two most likely suspects." A slow smirk spread across Bruce's face, "He doesn't know who's responsible."

"All the more reason not to go," Clark said.

"Lack of action is a sure sign of guilt," Diana intoned. "You should attend, direct his gaze onto you, and then gather more information while he is distracted."

Clark stared at her, "Direct his gaze?"

"It is obvious that more suspicion has fallen on Lois," Diana continued. "He offered her a plus one in a situation that does not require one in an effort to lure out her anonymous source from the website."

"Me," Clark whispered.

Lois made a face, "Does Luthor not know what 'anonymous' means? I would never be so obvious. I would get Clark in some other way . . ." She drew off, something sparking in her eyes. "Some other way so that he could, as you said Diana, gather more information. This building opening, it doesn't happen to have Luthor's usual personal office and penthouse on the top floor, does it?"

"If he ever didn't give himself an office and penthouse, hell would freeze over," Bruce said. "Also, I know where you're going with this, and it's a horrible idea. The level of security Lex employs in his buildings makes it too risky for-"

"For a normal, average minded person," Lois cut him off, "which isn't a problem, is it." It wasn't a question.

Bruce huffed out a breath through his nose before pinching the bridge of it and closing his eyes. "That's just if we manage to blend in enough to slip away in the first place. You can't possibly convince me Clark knows how to dance, and I'll give you everything in my wallet if he does."

"I can dance!" Clark snapped.

"Is it square dance?" Bruce asked, one eyebrow arched.

". . . I can also line dance . . ." Clark muttered.

"That is the saddest thing you've ever said to me," Bruce said, and he meant it. "You make me sad."

"Shut up. Why do I even need to know how to dance anyways, Lo?" He asked. "Didn't we just decide it would be stupid if I was your plus one?"

Lois snorted, "Yeah. Mine. We never said anything about Bruce's."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's probably 7k scrapped words in my trash doc for this chapter. It didn't help that it was just an amalgamation of scenes that had to come in between the discovery of Kryptonite and the football game, so it still probably feels a bit disjointed, but none of the moments were solid or long enough to be a standalone chapter. Also the art I just commissioned is specifically for chapter 10 in the outline and I'm reluctant to move it further back because 10 is a nice round number.
> 
> Anywho, comments as always are adored and appreciated, thank you for the lovely ones I've gotten so far!
> 
> Bonus: guess who got to meet the best boi goodest son? 
> 
> https://twitter.com/cat_macbeth/status/1135312053357436935?s=19
> 
> And thank god for that, because the three hour wait gave me time to write most of Billy's scenes for this chapter after two nonstop weeks of work and con booth prep.


	8. Can We Pretend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asking for honesty while not even being honest with yourself is the highest level of hypocrisy.
> 
> Ollie comes to visit, and Bruce confronts a life half lived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would apologize for my awful tardiness, but this chapter is also 19k so I won't lol.
> 
> Also, please note the rating went from M to E as of this chapter ;p

 Bruce Wayne knew a lot of information about a lot of people, many of them unpleasant and quite possibly secrets those people didn't want him, or anyone, to know.

 He knew that Barry's mother had been murdered, and that despite the conviction, Barry still claimed his father's innocence. He probably would until the day he died.

 He knew Lois had cornered him at that party because she had fought tooth and nail for her writing to be noticed, only to be overlooked because of her age and gender, her voice silenced under assumptions. She had seen him as an opportunity, and he had let her because she deserved it. 

 He knew Ollie viewed his family's company with contempt, revolted with the weapons it crafted and the deals it concocted behind closed doors. Despite that, he didn't see anything in himself that could change it, so he kept his back turned instead.

 He knew Hal had witnessed his father's death and despite a rough childhood had risen above it, overcome it. Sometimes, though, he still rubbed a nervous, absentminded thumb over old lines on his skin. 

 He knew Victor was disgusted with himself, vehemently so, and had initially become interested in sports because it was the antithesis of what he had been altered to be. The fact that he genuinely enjoyed it had been just a bonus. 

 He knew Diana had lost someone, and that the years had not worn away her grief. The body of an old wristwatch, threaded through with a chain where the leather handles had disintegrated with time, often hung around her neck just beneath her clothes. 

 He knew that Billy still considered the home in Fawcett City to be his family despite having allowed himself to get swallowed back into the system, and that whatever had happened to Billy's birth parents, he considered himself an orphan whether he actually was or not. 

 So, yeah, he knew quite a few things he maybe shouldn't. And a lot of them were likely secrets he wasn't supposed to have noticed or dug up in the first place. Regardless, this newest discovery was definitely the worst, and at the very least was causing him the biggest headache.

 Because, really, he could have gone the rest of his life without knowing Clark still had a portable stereo that played both CDs and cassettes. That was just too much. 

 And then Clark leaned over and pulled an entire CD rack out from under his bed as well.

 "You're killing me," Bruce mumbled into the palm of his hand, one arm folded over his chest and the opposite elbow perched across it to prop up his chin. Clark ignored him and started flipping through the collection of CD's, most of which Bruce was horrified to see were Rascal Flatts and Carrie Underwood albums. "Clark, please," he begged, "you're going to actually kill me. Do you even know what _year_ it is? Do you even know where you _live_?"

 "They aren't all country," Clark said defensively.

 "No, you're right," Bruce intoned as he leaned over Clark's shoulder to snag a particularly brightly colored album off the rack. "Some of them are," he squinted down at the title, " _Disney's Greatest Hits_ . . ." Huh. He slid the CD case back onto the rack and placed a palm between Clark's shoulder blades to steady himself as he reached down to pluck up another one. This time, to his relief, it was a generic classical mix. He could work with that. Regardless, he said aloud, "You did seem sort of like a _Hercules_ guy."

 To his surprise Clark shuddered a little, the slight tremble rippling up Bruce's arm from where they were touching. "Ah, no," Clark bit out. "That one is a little . . . Too close to home? I guess? Also 'Go The Distance' only sounds like a cool song, but the lyrics reveal that Hercules's goal is fame and recognition, and I don't uh . . ."

 "Not your thing," Bruce filled in.

 "I'm more of a _Lion King_ fan," Clark agreed. "Fighting because it's your duty, and more than that because it's the right thing to do. Or whatever," he shrugged, but the tacked on nonchalance sounded strange to Bruce's ears. Another oddity to be filed away for further contemplation, he decided.

 Thankfully it was a small stereo, battery powered and everything (disposable batteries, Bruce thought with distaste), so he could work with it. He could also work with the few acceptable CDs he found in Clark's veritable time capsule of a collection. Classical albums were fairly easy to time a waltz to. And, fuck it, he brought the Disney album too. Anything to make this slightly less of a chore than it already would be. 

 Clark hefted the stereo up under one arm as they exited the dorm, making a beeline for the stairs. Bruce opened his mouth to mention that one of the study rooms one floor down would probably be open this time of day, but shut it again when Clark turned towards the locked door to the roof. "Don't make another breaking and entering joke," Clark warned as he set the stereo down to fish his set of lockpicks out of his back pocket. 

 "Stating facts isn't a joke," Bruce said, and Clark glared at him over his shoulder as the lock clicked open. "And anyways, I'm allowed to be constantly surprised by your delinquency when it's balanced out by you showing me your Rascal Flatts collection."

 "It's not a collection."

 "If someone has more than two of something that isn't a necessity, it's a collection."

 Clark turned, already halfway up the stairs to the roof access door, and squinted down at him. "So you admit you collect cufflinks?"

 "Those are a necessity."

 "Having a set cufflinks in every metal known to man, and in multiple shapes and designs, is the exact opposite of a necessity," Clark argued as he shouldered the door open. He handed Bruce the stereo as he approached, then hopped back down the stairs to lock the door behind them. "Do you buy a new pair every time you go to a party?"

 Bruce stared at him as he climbed the steps again, words failing him for a second. "Uh . . . Not . . . Every time . . ." He cleared his throat. "Sometimes I buy two?"

 Clark blinked, "Two? Why would . . . Oh, no. You _didn't_." 

 He looked sufficiently horrified, Bruce decided, so now would be a good time to bring up what other ridiculous and extravagant things Bruce was throwing his money at. "You also have an appointment with my tailor next weekend." 

 Clark's expression morphed into something a little too close to existential terror for Bruce's comfort, so he looked away and stepped out onto the open roof rather than face it. It wasn't like he was flaunting it, he knew full well how uncomfortable his flippant spending could make people. But Lex's parties had dress codes, and he could afford it. "It's a gift," he said as he set the stereo down near where two window screens had been stacked neatly next to the cement block around the door. He stared at them for a moment, eyes narrowing, before he focused his attention back on Clark, who was still standing shellshocked in the doorway. "Clark," he said slowly, carefully, " _It's a gift_. I can afford it." Billy had called himself a charity case, and that had made Bruce's stomach twist. "Just because the gifts I give are expensive doesn't mean people need to feel indebted to me. You made cookies for everyone yesterday. You didn't have to. I bought you attire for the party, I didn't have to."

 "Bruce . . ."

 It was best to ignore the inherent uncertainty in the syllables of his own name, Bruce decided as he read the song names on the back of one of the CDs. This was exactly why he'd bought Hal's sheets and comforter under the guise of surplus. He couldn't disguise a suit fitting under surplus though, Clark was altogether broader, and just a fraction taller than Bruce was. And, shit, he'd forgotten about shoes. They'd have to both be fashionable and practical, just in case they ended up in another situation that required a hasty exit. He'd have to arrange that too. 

 "Thank you."

 Bruce frowned, drawn out of his jumbled thoughts of Mozart and shoe styles, and looked up to see Clark standing over where he was still crouched in front of the stereo. "For what?"

 "For the gift, for taking the time to teach me to dance, for helping me figure out this thing with Lexcorp," Clark listed. His gaze was distant, focused on the clouds that drifted towards the campus from the Metropolis skyline. "You didn't have to do any of that."

 "Don't make it sound like a chore," Bruce said after a moment of consideration. "I _wanted_ to do those things. Now come here and help me pick a song to waltz to." 

 Obediently Clark crouched down beside him, flashing a bright grin Bruce's way before he plucked one of the CDs out of the stack in Bruce's hands. "I like this one," he said pointing at a name on the back of the cover. 

 "'Beethoven's Five Secrets,'" Bruce read aloud. He reached for the album and flipped it over, "Piano Guys?" 

 "It's a remix. You'll like it," Clark urged. He took the case back and moved to pop the CD into the stereo, shooing Bruce towards the middle of the roof with a gesture as he set it up to play on repeat. "Or at least you'll like it for awhile. You'll probably going to hate it after the hundredth repeat or so."

 "Your self confidence and feigned lack thereof isn't quite as off putting as you try and make it seem," Bruce said evenly, pleased when Clark's eyes widened just a little. "You're smart. You'll get it in three plays, maybe less, and then we can move on to something more complicated." He lifted his hands into position, "Now come here." And then, after a moment's consideration, reluctantly shifted his stance and raised his right hand rather than his left.

 Clark approached him with a raised eyebrow, "Why did that just look like _you_ don't know how to dance?" He teased.

 "I know how to dance," Bruce bit out, motioning for Clark to mirror him. "But I'm used to leading." He shook his waiting left hand, ignoring the faint flush that bloomed over Clark's cheeks. "But the inch and a half you have over me dictates you'll be leading."

 "Two inches, I think," Clark said, but he took the offered hand anyways. He paused when Bruce placed his free hand on his shoulder, his own hovering uncertainly in the air at Bruce's side.

 "Somewhere on the back between the shoulder and the hips, depending on the height of your partner and the level of intimacy you want to include in a simple waltz," Bruce instructed. 

 "O-oh," Clark choked out. "Right." He settled his hand around Bruce's shoulder blade, and Bruce barely refrained from rolling his eyes. "Now what?"

 There were exactly six steps to a traditional waltz not counting the foot slides (which technically weren't a step), six entire steps to fumble through, Bruce highly suspected. He'd never taught anyone something so rigid in practice. Hell, the only thing he'd ever actually taught anyone at all was the blows he and Hal threw at each other a few times a week at the gym, and a lot of that was cause and effect, learning through adaption. "This is one," Bruce said as he mentally counted the beats in the music, and then stepped to the right, "and two."

 "You sound like an eye doctor," Clark snickered as he copied him.

 "You wouldn't know," Bruce countered. "Your glasses are fake. Three." He clicked his heels as they came back together, and this time Clark caught the new step halfway through and finished it in time. "Good." Stepping back with his right foot, he pulled Clark with him, "Four. And here with the left, five. Heels together again," he moved back towards their starting position and Clark followed, "and six. That's it."

 Clark blinked at him, "That's _it_ ? You just repeat that over and over and that's _it_?"

 "You say that as if line dancing isn't the same steps repeated over and over, too," Bruce said evenly. "Or any dancing other than freestyle for that matter. Besides, this is just a basic waltz. It's supposed to be simple enough that you can add in your own flair wherever. Most dances you see in Disney princess movies are variations on the waltz."

 Clark looked contemplative at that, chewing on the inside of his lip, before something that looked far too competitive for Bruce's liking sparked in his eyes. "Alright. Show me again."

 So he did, guiding Clark patiently through the first three steps until he nearly lost his footing as Clark, midway through the fourth step back, artfully used his grip on Bruce's hand to spin him under his arm. "What are you-" Bruce snapped, stalling as his arms crossed in front of his ribs and his back collided with Clark's solid chest. "- doing?"

 "Is that enough flair?" Clark asked cheekily over his shoulder. Bruce stumbled as Clark two stepped to the side and spun him out so they were facing each other once more. "How about this?" He finished it off by catching both of Bruce's hands in his and stepping back in a movement that was very obviously . . .

 "Swing dancing wasn't on your list of dances you were familiar with."

 Clark smirked, "I am a man of many hidden talents."

 "All of which are terrible." This time when Clark twirled him under his arm, he kept his footing, taking the opportunity of the pullback to place his other hand on Clark's shoulder. "Now let's try a quickstep, since you're so eager to show off." He guided Clark into the first set of slow-quick-quick movements, almost relieved when the new beat almost immediately threw the other man off. Weakness was a sign of humanity in all the best ways. 

 "Who taught you to dance?"

 Quarter turn. "My mother," Bruce said without looking up from their feet. "But I don't remember much of that. I was very young."

 When he looked up Clark was staring at him with the smallest of frowns, "So who taught you after that?"

 "A schoolmate. Boarding schools, especially higher end ones, tend to like to hold fancy dinners for the parents and more importantly, the investors. And the investors like to see how their crop of children will fare in a high society environment. It was expected that I know how to dance." He drew them to a halt, biting his lip when Clark stuttered to an unsteady stop. "You're thinking too hard and missing the beats in the music. Every slow step takes up two beats, and the quick ones one beat each." Clark nodded, and they started up again. Bruce shifted his gaze upwards from their feet to catch sight of Clark silently mouthing, "Slow-quick-quick," in time to the song. He smirked.

 "So your classmate taught you," Clark continued once he seemed to have the tempo down a little better. "And you were, what, eleven? Twelve?"

 "Thirteen," Bruce admitted reluctantly. "And unfortunately over my phase of punching my problems. Which meant I was no longer suspended from the formal events, and thus subject to wooing investors just like everyone else. Oliver of course was disgustingly delighted."

 Clark's eyebrows furrowed a bit, "Oliver Queen?"

 Of course Clark had heard of him, Bruce bemoaned internally, the guy had been plastered on his own fair share of vanity magazine covers and tabloids. Hell, he was pretty sure if he went the grocery store right now he could find one at the checkout stand that at the very least had Ollie mentioned in the table of contents, if nothing else. One couldn't try and destroy the reputation of their parents' company through being a party-going public nuisance without turning into a paparazzi sensation after all. "Would you believe the world of the financially elite is in fact quite small?" 

 "The one percent is only a tiny part of the population?" Clark said with feigned surprise, his eyes comically wide, "you don't say." He spun Bruce under his arm again, and Bruce made note of the fact that he was still half a beat off. "Are you two close?"

 Bruce rolled this question, and all the little nuances of it, over in his mind. In the sense that Clark probably meant it, he wasn't sure he actually considered himself close to anyone. It implied a level of emotional connection he had never intentionally sought out. And on the off chance Clark was asking after their physical closeness . . . Bruce bit back a snort that threatened to escape him. Sarcasm, as always was probably the best route. "He lives in the west coast," he said evenly. Clark just rolled his eyes. "Now can we cease the inquisition and talk about how while your general dancing skills aren't lacking your sense of rhythm is atrocious. Do you even know what 4/4 time is?"

 ~~~***~~~

 They weren't close by any definition Bruce would consider accurate. Regardless of the fact that Ollie had been as clingy as a cuttlefish in their school days, going so far as to either transfer schools or also get expelled to keep up with Bruce's period of wayward schoolyard vigilantism, closeness required something more than general proximity. He had never once in his life discussed his feelings with Ollie. He had never sent him a birthday gift, nor received one himself. There had never been any confided secrets between them. They had never discussed their home lives or families. And perhaps most importantly, Bruce expected nothing of Ollie. And, he suspected, Ollie expected nothing of him either. 

 But of course expectations always did falter in the face of reality, for as many times as Bruce had brushed Ollie off, there remained something concrete. Bruce hesitated to call it loyalty, if only because he questioned its unrealistic unshakability. In Ollie's case, at least, he suspected it was something more akin to foolhardy affection. For Bruce at least, loyalty was still the best word.

 "This guy seems like an asshole," Hal said beside him, a magazine that he'd made Bruce buy him from the Skymall kiosk at the front of the airport in his hands. Surprise surprise, Ollie was a page four feature. 

 Bruce pushed his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose and peered over at the unfortunately quite literal spread. He supposed it was good to have hobbies, he decided as he stared at the selection of underwear being modeled. " _Cosmo_?" He surmised, thumbing back to the cover to reveal that it was indeed the very rag he had guessed. 

 Hal shrugged. "It had your boy's name on it, so I thought I'd do some research before I met him."

 "Please don't call him that," Bruce said tersely. God forbid anyone overheard _that_.  

 "You have a problem with that but not a problem with me calling him an asshole?" Hal raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "Why exactly did you invite this dude to visit then if that's how it is?"

 "Because Oliver will do what I ask of him without asking for anything in return," Bruce said, ignoring Hal's faintly horrified look. He hadn't expected someone of Hal's background to understand. 

 Someone who didn't take advantage of your status and access to wealth was hard to come by in the circles Bruce had grown up in. 

 As usual with Ollie, Bruce heard him coming long before he saw him. Or at least he heard the camera flashes. Preemptively, he pushed Hal to the side and further into the crowd of people waiting for friends and relatives by baggage claim, making sure it seemed like he blended in with the rest of the innocent bystanders.  

 Ollie's presence was a hurricane. The photographers, those that hadn't been snatched up just yet by the Metropolis airport security, hovered around him. And Ollie, probably unable to resist the chance to see the look on his mother's face when she saw the cover of whatever tabloid her son ended up in this week, was making an obscene gesture at them. Bruce exhaled slowly out through his nose and then in again. He waited, watching as Ollie spotted him  out of the corners of his eyes. In truth he could avoid this entirely by just hiding until the paparazzi had all been hauled off, but who was he to ruin Ollie's fun? He waited until he was sure he had Ollie's gaze, and then tilted his head, arms already half lifted, a rather universal if slightly challenging acceptance. 

 Ollie finished blowing a raspberry at a photographer who'd put a camera too close to his face, and pushed his palm into the lens, forcing the man to stumble backwards as he turned on his heel and launched himself at Bruce. "I knew you missed me!" He yelled, which of course turned quite a few heads, much to Bruce's chagrin.

 Still though, he caught the other man as he  crashed into him, Ollie's strong arms wrapping solidly around his shoulders. "Anyone ever told you you're an embarrassment?" He murmured, fingers fisting into the back of the blond's olive green hoodie. He closed his eyes against the flash of a camera, pressing his face into the crook of Ollie's neck. "Not on the lips," he added, nonplussed when Ollie pressed a kiss to the shell of his ear. 

 "Oh of course not. God forbid we give my dear mother a stroke by making that public" Ollie assured. "Also," he added, leaning back in Bruce's grip just far enough for their noses to still be brushing. "People tell me I'm an embarrassment every day, you know that." Someone must have finally started dragging away the last of the photographers, because the final flash that went off was so far behind Ollie that there was no way the image was viable enough for any gossip rag. Bruce loosened his hold, his duty as fodder for Ollie's quest to drive his mother and his company into an early grave complete. The blond grinned at him, hands still laced together behind Bruce's neck. "You always do put on such a good show, babe," he hummed. 

 Bruce made a soft, noncommittal noise and lifted a hand to run his fingers through the blond hair pooling around Ollie's shoulders. "This looks terrible, by the way. Why are you growing it out?"

 "You wound me," Ollie laughed. "You've clearly not been keeping up with the tabloids. This," he preened, flipping his hair over one shoulder, "looks great with the beard. I'll wear it in a bun for the game, you'll see."

 "The day I keep up with your life through the tabloids is the day hell freezes over," Bruce deadpanned. He glanced over his shoulder, checking the crowds for phones pointed their direction. Seeing none, he crooked a finger at Hal, who was still off to the side, doing his best to look nonchalant. "This is my roommate, Hal," he said by way of introduction.

 Ollie, if it was even possible, perked up even more, and snatched the magazine out of Hal's grasp as soon as it was within reach. "Oooh, is this my new spread? I haven't seen it yet." Gleefully, he flipped it open to page four, whistling softly. Bruce pulled his sunglasses off just so Ollie could _see_ him roll his eyes. "Ah, they always do get my best sides. What do you think? Do you have a favorite?" He tilted the page over for Bruce to see.

 "Oliver," Bruce warned softly. 

 "Right, of course. It's not like you can't get the full display whenever." Ollie grinned and held out the open pages towards Hal instead. "Well?"

 Hal sputtered, cheeks reddening. Bruce sighed. "Hal, you don't have to-"

 "I mean, it's obviously the navy and green plaid one, right?" Hal said, the answer coming out remarkably cool despite the heated color of his face. "Except," he snatched the magazine back, flipping it around so the other two could see it while he pointed, "this pose doesn't work at all. Did the photographer pick that? He must mostly work with women, because anyone with _eyes_ would know to make a guy show off his scruff with an upwards tilt of the head. Tucking your chin down like that in such a demure way is a god damn waste."

 Bruce blinked, schooling his expression as he took a half step back to get a good look at the Cheshire smile that spread across Ollie's face. _Good lord_. 

 " _Oh_ ," Ollie smirked, "bold. I _like_ you. Hal, was it?" Hal nodded. "You and I are going to get along swimmingly."

 Bruce turned his gaze to the ceiling and contemplated all the ways Barry would slip him poison without him noticing for the sin of creating this unholy combination. 

 ~~~***~~~

 "This is the worst thing you have ever done to me," Barry said, his head in his hands. "I mean it, the absolute _worst_." 

 If he took the time Bruce supposed be could make an accurate map of how two hours later he had found himself sitting in the waiting area of a high end dressing room, but doing so would probably entail admitting to some character faults he wasn't keen to make public. The jist of it was that upon asking Ollie what hotel he was staying at for the weekend the answer had been a resounding, " _HA_ !" And when the following question had been, " _Ollie, did you check a bag?_ " with the response being a flippant hand motion, it had all just turned into a downward slide towards their current, seemingly inevitable fate. 

 At least he'd managed to drag Barry into it so he wasn't alone in being the only sane person in the room. Speaking of, Bruce raised an eyebrow at the accusation leveled at him. "I've . . . Never done anything to you," he stated with reasonable certainty. 

 Barry parted his fingers over his face just enough to glare at Bruce through them. "Oh no, I'm holding this as the paramount worst thing above all _future_ things I'm starting to strongly suspect this friendship is going to curse me with suffering through."

 "That seems like low threshold," Bruce decided after a pause. "It's just clothes shopping."

 Barry straightened up, pointing a finger at him, "First of all, is that a threat? Second of all, this isn't about being stuck in a rich person version of Kohls!"

 Ah. _That_. Bruce turned his eyes towards the ceiling, letting the awkward silence in the wake of that very telling statement linger. This was so, so very far outside of his many areas of expertise it might as well have been in space. On one hand, it was likely that Barry didn't want him to continue this conversation at all. On the other . . . Bruce glanced over, taking in the way Barry had slumped back over, his head in his hands once again. Every bit of his posture radiated a specific kind of pent up misery that Bruce had never had the displeasure of experiencing. Surely, there was something of value he could offer, even if it was just condolences.

 This was, of course, the exact moment Ollie slammed open the door of the dressing room in front of them, and Bruce let whatever sympathies he had mustered up die on his tongue in order to push his sunglasses back on and shield his eyes properly. Ollie had somehow in the depths of the store racks found the most absurdly expensive looking I _Love Metropolis_ sweatshirt Bruce had ever seen, and had coupled it with . . . He squinted, "Are those leggings?"

 Ollie stuck a silver and green striped leg out, "The technical term is 'meggings.'"

 "Because god forbid men use the same words for things women do," Barry muttered under his breath. "Where's Hal?" He said, louder.

 "Trying to figure out this space zipper, hold on!" Hal stumbled out of the dressing room, still fumbling with a zipper on a leather vest that split needlessly into a Y shape over the shoulders. Apparently deciding he had done all he could, he dropped it to turn on the spot and show off his own set of leggings that matched Ollie's, though he had had the decency to put some short cropped grey shorts over top of them. "Well?" He boasted, spinning to a stop and popping out the collar of the coat. "Does this make my butt look good or what?"

 "Uh . . ." Barry squeaked out. 

 "I'm not taking either of you anywhere like that," Bruce warned. 

 Ollie sighed, flinging an arm over his face and slouching backwards in typical dramatic fashion. "You're so right of course. These aren't the correct colors at all. If we're going to a football game, we should be properly attired to show team spirit."

 Bruce rolled his eyes, "That's not what I-"

 "No, he's hit the nail on the head," Hal interrupted. "What's the kid's team colors? Gold and blue? I'm sure we can find something." He leaned over to pick contemplatively at the fabric of the leggings he was sporting before bounding over and pulling Barry to his feet in a motion so quick and sudden that Barry squawked, unsteady and caught off guard. "You too, Bar. Oliver said he'd pay. Don't like go nuts or anything, obviously, but turning down a gift is rude."

 Barry flushed, and Bruce couldn't quite tell if it was one of his embarrassed shades of scarlet, or his furious ones. "I don't . . ." He started, stalled, his eyes traveling down the odd Y shaped zipper crossing Hal's chest to the leggings, then quickly snapping back up. "This stuff is . . . Out of my depth," he concluded. 

 Hal hummed out a considering note, "I could pick something out. It won't be too weird, I promise." At this point, Ollie was already grabbing stuff off the discard rack and spinning back into the dressing room, and Hal spared him a mildly interested glance before giving Barry his full attention once more. "If I pick it out, will you wear it?"

 "Uhm," Barry stammered, "I-I guess . . ."

 "Great!" Hal beamed. He let Barry slump weakly back down in his seat, already making his way out onto the shop floor to peruse the various means of attire. 

 Barry groaned and muttered something incomprehensible under his breath before falling over sideways on the bench. "I can't believe you've done this to me," he whispered hoarsely. "This is _the worst_."

 Bruce leaned over to pat him on the shoulder in a consoling manner that was only semi-sarcastic. "Do you want to talk about it?"

 "With you?" Barry frowned up at him, "Yeah, uh, no offense? But no."

 "None taken."

 And there really wasn't. He had eyes, and with them he could observe well enough what Barry was feeling. But that didn't mean he understood it, at least not in any way he wanted to address even to himself.

 Ollie swanned out of the dressing room again, this time clad in gold leggings with blue spots. "Better?" He crowed, leaning down to give Bruce a peck on his cheek.

 "Slightly less terrible," Bruce conceded. He lifted a hand and let his fingers thread lightly through Ollie's hair for a heartbeat. The moment of affection did nothing but echo down his arm and reverberate through the emptiness in his chest. 

 What an odd thing, he thoughtly dully, to be jealous of an emotion rather than something that could be physically owned.

 ~~~***~~~

 Clark, in predictable Thursday night farm boy fashion, burst through Bruce's dorm room door with his arms weighed down with reusable bags full of fresh produce. Bruce squinted at him  from where he was disassembling the pump for the faulty air mattress he'd just purchased. The groceries, he noted, were suspiciously fresh and sticker free. "You get those from your parents?" He asked mildly. 

 Clark stared at him for a long, almost uneasy moment before he laughed, "Farmers markets exist, Bruce."

 Bruce considered this, decided that it still technically wasn't a lie, and moved on. "I don't know how to cook artichokes," he mused aloud. In all fairness, he didn't know how to cook much of anything that didn't look like a sandwich, but admitting that would break Alfred's heart. "Also, I hope you brought enough for everyone, because I sent the guys to pick up Billy, and Lois and Diana are heading this way after their last class." 

 It was best he didn't mention that none of the rest of them had gone to class that day due to Ollie's shenanigans. Speaking of their actual activities aloud would only result in receiving one of Clark's trademark disappointed faces. Although, Bruce noted with an annoyed look at the state of his room and the absolute hoard of brand new clothing littering Hal's bed, it might in fact be extremely obvious that they hadn't gone to class. And if that didn't give it away, Barry's rants about how behind they were going to be that hadn't let up before Bruce had sent them away would certainly betray them. A glance in Clark's direction confirmed that the other man had taken the pause in conversation to gaze around the room and was quickly coming to his own conclusions. Bruce focused on staring intently at the gutted air pump. If he didn't meet Clark's eyes for the disappointed face, he was essentially immune. 

 "I would honestly be shocked if you knew how to cook artichokes," Clark settled on eventually. "And I brought eight of them. I assumed Victor was still grounded."

 Bruce clenched his jaw briefly. "He is. It'll be amended tomorrow," he added darkly. 

 Clark hummed a low, considering note. "You've put a lot of faith in the sway your friend holds."

 "Oliver turns heads," Bruce said easily as he set aside the unsalvageable pump in order to stand and take some of the bags from Clark's hands, taking careful stock of the way Clark moved his arms up as the weight was lifted from him. "For both good and bad reasons. He knows when something is important enough to make sure he does the former." He paused, something about Clark's words leaving him cold for an uncomfortable second. "And he's not my . . . Friend."

 It was strange to say out loud, thick on his tongue, the syllables hard to sound out as if they carried with them the heaviness of silver. But it wasn't a lie, was it? They weren't close. They spent their childhoods in a game of give and take, all of it superficial. Ollie defended him, so Bruce fought back for him in turn. They had never scratched at anything even close to a real, tangible emotion aloud. The things they knew about each other were learned through observation and senses rather than conversation. 

 He had not kissed Ollie in a dark belfry above the school because he loved him. He had done it because he had been curious, because he could. And Ollie had never asked anything more of him. Instead he'd just smiled, small and sad. 

 Clark was staring at him, arms still half laden with bags, and suddenly Bruce couldn't look him in the eye, lest he see the pity he feared would be there. 

 "But you care about him," Clark said, and it wasn't a question. Bruce jerked his head back up, brow furrowing as he processed the calmness in the other man's tone. "You care about him _a lot_. You care about all of us a lot." He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, "Or at least it seems like you do."

 " _Seems like_ . . ." Bruce repeated, trying to keep the accusation out of his tone, but from the way Clark's mouth shifted into a slight frown, he didn't quite manage it. "How does it seem like-"

 "Bruce, you _just_ got furious when you thought for a second that you wouldn't be able to get Victor out of whatever pickle he ended up in with his father. And look, I haven't even met the kids, but you give, excuse my language, an awful lot of a shit about Victor and Billy for someone who keeps refusing to say he cares about people enough to call them friends." Clark shrugged then, the motion almost flippant in a way Bruce suddenly couldn't stand. "Anyways, are you going to help me with dinner or not?"

 "Not," Bruce said venomously, only remembering he was holding half the ingredients as the word was already slipping out of his mouth. Fuck. He stared up at the ceiling and exhaled through his nose. "I don't . . . Have friends, Clark. Caring about people is . . ." _Pearls clattering onto the asphalt, the smell of gunpowder burning in his nose._ ". . . It's a _weakness_." 

 He expected, when he looked back at Clark, to see anger in his gaze. That was the usual reaction, after all. It was how everyone had always looked at him after he admitted that. Everyone except Ollie. But Clark just smiled at him, small and sad.

 "Okay," Clark said evenly. And it wasn't patience, or pity, that lined his tone. No it was . . . Acceptance. Somehow, something about it made the Bruce's breath hitch. "Then what is this, then? Any of this?" He gestured around them. The bags of groceries they were planning on turning into a meal together. Hal's bed, littered with gifts from Ollie above the sheets Bruce had bought him. The desk that was weighed down with notes translated from the Lexcorp flash drive he and Clark had stolen. His chair draped over with Victor's discarded letter jacket, waiting to be handed over to Billy the next day. His bed where a borrowed book from Barry sat with a bookmark shaped like a shield Diana had given him holding the pages open. His wall, pinned with articles Lois had written. 

 Something sharp dragged dangerous claws across the inside of Bruce's ribs. Give and take. It was all superficial, an exchange. It didn't mean _anything_. 

 It couldn't.

  _It couldn't_.

 "It doesn't mean anything," he said aloud. "It's just give and take. I do things that people need me to do, things maybe only I can do. That's it."

 "And they give you something in return?" Clark asked. "Like what? The books Barry lends you? The movies Hal shares with you? Diana's crafts? Bruce, that's stuff friends do."

 "No," Bruce spat, "friendship is intangible. It's given, _earned_ through emotions, not objects! Experiences, affections, connections! These, the stuff in this room, are just _things_. This isn't-"

  _Hal sitting on the edge of his bed, his knees pulled up to his chest, apologizing for a faux pas he didn't know he'd committed._

  _Billy leaning into his side in the back of a car, entirely of his own accord._

  _Barry letting himself be pushed behind Bruce's back in the face of a threat, a sudden surge of protectiveness in his chest._

  _Diana holding out her hand for the paracord, an open offer he still hadn't answered on her lips._

  _Lois laughing over a tray of sushi shared on the table between them._

  _Victor trusting him with a key, with Billy, as if he was handing over his entire world._

  _Clark spinning him around under his arm, starry eyed and breathless in his efforts to make Bruce smile._

  _Ollie watching him get out of bed, feigning sleep even as his hand reached out to touch the already cooling, empty space in the sheets. It had almost been enough to make him-_

 No. It wasn't. _It wasn't_. 

 Things that were given value could so easily be snatched away. 

 "Let's just go make dinner."

 Bruce blinked, fingers unclenching from where he'd fisted them unconsciously into his shirt over his chest. Clark was still watching him, quietly, softly. _Accepting_. He wasn't asking for him to change, Bruce realized, because there wasn't anything to change. 

 He was asking for the truth.

 "If it's give and take," Clark concluded wryly, the ghost of a smile on his lips, "you certainly haven't taken much from me at all, have you. I definitely at the very least owe you for the dancing lessons. Is showing you the way around a kitchen an even exchange?"

 "Yes," Bruce said, because admitting he had already received something, something intangible, would be admitting he had been wrong. 

 They made their way downstairs in silence, and Bruce was relieved to find the communal kitchen on the ground floor empty. "I think Diana made a pretty public declaration this morning that it was reserved," Clark remarked as he set his bags down, as if reading Bruce's mind. "And you know how she is."

 "Loud?" Bruce asked.

 "I was going to say intimidating," Clark laughed, "but that works too." Bruce pulled up one of the stools around the island, watching as Clark unpacked the groceries and separated them into piles. "Do you want to cut the leaves?" He asked, holding out one of the artichokes and a pair of scissors.

 Most people overlooked the little everyday things in life; the sounds of a building bustling with people, the smell of food cooking, the solidity of a familiar roof over your head and a floor under your feet. They only noticed them once they were gone. And maybe that was exactly why Bruce always took the time to notice them, to observe. 

 He remembered what it was like to lack them.

 The presence of other people in his life always stood out in stark relief after that. He catalogued them each into memory, giving himself moments to pour over in his mind when night crept in until they faded with time; people becoming nameless, stars just distant lights that didn't shine nearly as bright as the eyes of those that talked about them. 

 He had never shared anything resembling an emotion with anyone. Not intentionally. If Ollie had ever surmised anything about his internal workings in the past, it was through observation. 

 He could feel Clark observing him now, just one of many little everyday things to pass away the time. This, too, was a give and take. They did it in spurts and fits, exchanging glances whenever they thought the other wasn't looking.

 About Clark, Bruce noticed many things. He only ever seemed to stand up straight whenever he was trying to make a point, and otherwise kept his head down. When he walked he measured his strides, the distance in each step forward the same width apart. And perhaps most importantly, he held everything lightly, each touch ginger and almost tentative in a way a casual observer would easily mistake for nervousness. But whenever he saw these things, Bruce forced himself to overlook them. People didn't keep secrets so tightly coiled within their own skin unless they were scared of what the truth could lead to, and picking at Clark's intricacies hadn't lead him anywhere other than the fight in the hall just before they'd broken into Silas's office. 

 It made him wonder what secrets Clark had already pried out of him just by looking though. What did he see in the way Bruce carried himself? The way he carefully chose his words before he spoke? Did his posture still stiffen whenever he approached corners he couldn't see around, or had it settled more with the years? Was there something about the way he looked at the people who spent their time with him that prompted the questions in the dorm room shortly before? Or did the fault lie in his actions more so than his reactions?

 "These look good," Clark remarked, looking up from his dipping sauce be was mixing to examine one of the clipped artichokes Bruce had finished. "Is that all of them?"

 Much like dancing, they moved around each other in the wide dormitory kitchen with a level of ease and finesse that shouldn't have come as naturally as it did. _Interlocking cogs_ , Bruce thought for one wild second, and then quickly brushed that stray idea from his mind. Clark stood over his shoulder, reaching around him to carefully reposition the artichokes in the water before Bruce put the pot on the burner. "It takes about forty minutes to steam them, but we should keep an eye on them anyways so they don't get too soft. Every stove is different, and I've never cooked these at sea level before."

 Bruce turned his head to glance at him, taking note of how, as always, Clark had almost zero concept of personal space. "Have you even seen the ocean, Kansas?"

 "Every time you call me that I die a little bit inside," Clark muttered. "Also yes of course I've seen the ocean." 

 "Going to the ocean alone is something grieving widows do," Bruce admonished lightly, knowingly. 

 Clark scowled at him, "Alright, wiseguy. We'll go to the beach when it gets warm again."

 "Presumptuous of you to make summer plans so far in advance."

 "Presumptuous of you to assume you'll have anything better to do," Clark countered. 

 Bruce blinked down at the pot of water and artichokes in his hands, momentarily stunned. His instinct was to snap that he was very rich and famous and of course had something to do, except that was obviously a lie. The sort of lie, in fact, that he had used on press in the past. The truth was, and he suspected this was factual for many of the elite,  he constantly had fuck all to do. That's why actually taking the time to try and attend a four year college hadn't really come with any consequences. Contrary to popular belief, wealth could buy anything, and came with an inordinate amount of free time because of that. He opened his mouth, the retort already dead and bundled up in the back of his throat, and he swallowed around it. "I . . . Suppose I could make time," he settled on, and his footing suddenly felt just as unsteady has his heart. The world must be tilting off its axis, he decided with resignation, a protest to the inconceivable idea that Bruce Wayne had just said something that had pinned his heart on his sleeve. "For you," he added resolutely, _specifically_. 

 Clark was staring at him, a wide smile forming on his face, "Oh?" He said, the hint of something impish in his tone. "Descending from on high just for little ol' me?"

 Bruce struggled with how to sigh and smirk at the same time, both strangely annoyed and immensely relieved that the moment, whatever it had been, had been ruined by Clark's inability to refrain from being sarcastic. He settled on just rolling his eyes, an action he was too well versed in by now, and reached over to flick the burner onto a medium heat. "You're insufferable," he said after letting Clark stew in the silence for a bit as punishment. "I don't know how I put up with you."

 "I mean, you sort of have to," Clark grinned, "since I'm your date to Lex's big shindig."

 "Please don't say 'shindig,'" Bruce sighed, deciding to confront the lesser of the two wrongdoings of that statement. Clark was probably just being cheeky, again, about the other one. Right? "Or at least save saying it until you can do it in front of Lex. He would probably be so horrified at having someone dub his well to do party with such uncouth language he'd die."

 "One can only hope," Clark agreed. He took a bounce of a step back, catching Bruce's attention just from the sudden lack of his too-close presence beside him. Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he set it down on the island countertop, the screen lit up with a large play button at the top. Bruce raised an eyebrow. "I said I'd trade cooking lessons for more dancing," Clark answered the silent question as he hit the play button and made his way around the island towards the lounge area on the other side, and the empty space between sofas. 

 Bruce watched him stare at the hardwood floor as he carefully positioned his feet before he held his hands up in open invitation. Well then. "You have no shame, do you," Bruce said.

 Clark's nose wrinkled before he said, "No?" with mildly offended uncertainty. And then, with a hesitation that tugged at something in Bruce's chest, "Uh, should I?"

 "No," Bruce said immediately, the rebuttal coming out if him almost faster than he could think it. He paced around the island and the sofas to stand in front of Clark, sliding easily into his hands with an air of professionalism that masked any other erratic thoughts and feelings the moment brought. Clark's fingers, as always, were feather-light and too warm in his own and on his shoulder blade. "It's blunt, but it's honest." Something flared in Clark's eyes, and if they weren't standing so close together Bruce would have missed the way his breath hitched in his chest. "And you're always you when you're honest."

 Clark sucked in an uneven breath, and Bruce wondered if he'd said too much again. But when he dared to glance up at meet the other man's eyes, he was startled to see something other than the earlier abject fear in them.

  _Guilt_. 

 Bruce forced himself to keep his expression neutral, entirely unsure of what to make of that unexpected result. He hadn't exactly said it in an effort to provoke a reaction so much as to be honest for once. Clark was most himself, it seemed, when his audience was smaller. Like now. Like on the rooftop. Like in Silas's office. The less eyes on him, the less care he put into everything he said and did. And he liked that Clark, the one that was unafraid to tease and laugh, a lot more. He should say that, he thought, he should say it out loud, so Clark knew that. It wasn't a hard thing to say, he reasoned, and he had already left so many other things unsaid to other people. But now that he had seen the guilt in Clark's gaze, the words wouldn't come to him. 

 Right now, faced with the last vestiges of Clark's facades cracking at the seams, saying he liked his honest self better would be like digging his fingers into an already bleeding wound. 

 "Think you've mastered the quickstep enough to keep up yet?" He asked lightly, relieved when Clark's expression shifted from quiet remorse to one of his usual taunting smiles. 

 "I mean, I've watched a few youtube videos. I'm more of a visual learner anyways."

 "Implying you've had your eyes closed the entire time I've been teaching you?" Bruce asked wryly. He squeezed Clark's hand, and taking the hint, Clark began to lead them through the first few steps. "Is that why you always stomp on my feet?" He added.

 Clark looked affronted. "I have _never_ ." Which of course he hadn't, when every step he took was always so measured. He twirled Bruce under his arm, an unnecessary flourish to the steps that Bruce was happy to oblige. "You however probably step on people's feet all the time at parties. On _purpose_ ," he clarified wickedly.

 "You can't prove anything," Bruce said. "And neither can the veritable fascists whose toes may have been squashed in the past." 

 "Maybe. But how often have you been able to pull that off as an adult?" Clark countered as he paused to count the measure of the next song on the playlist before they continued dancing. "The clumsiness of children is easily excusable."

 "You've never seen me drunk," Bruce reminded. "Or faux drunk," he amended after a second of thought. He wanted Clark to be honest, and that meant he had to be honest too. "I try to never actually get drunk anywhere public. It dulls the senses." 

 "But you get . . . Fake drunk?" He stumbled slightly for the first time that day, and Bruce noted that he fixed himself in a matter of milliseconds, only missing one beat in the tempo. Good. "What's the point of getting fake drunk?"

 "To observe. People let down their guards around those they think won't remember the interaction. You overhear a lot of juicy gossip when you spend your parties slurring your words and barely staying upright. How else do you think I always got such good tips for Lois?" It was somewhat gratifying to see how pleased Clark looked at the very idea. Intrigued even. Daringly, and as Clark decided to dip him in yet another unnecessary but artful addition to the steps, he hedged, "I could teach you. It's pretty easy so long as you have at least one memory to build off of what it's actually like to be drunk."

 Clark froze.

 Bruce lifted his head, his back still bent over Clark's arm mid dip. "What?"

 "I ca- . . ." Bruce could see it, the careful consideration that was going into every word behind Clark's wide eyes. "I've never been drunk." 

  _Can't_. 

 Bruce was almost certain that had been what he'd almost said. A slip of the tongue that would have been just as honest, but far more telling than what the words had been amended to. Most people would have missed it. But Bruce wasn't most people. 

 "You're only nineteen," he said, equally as careful. "I'm not shocked you of all people actually adheres to the drinking age. And there's no rush. We've already planned for you to play the bumbling country bumpkin at this party."

 Clark laughed, the nervous energy of the moment draining away with each peal of his breathless humor. 

 "Wow. You can just _smell_ the tension in here."

 They blinked, and Bruce reached up to push at Clark's chest to urge him back into a more upright position so that he was no longer caught in the eternal dip. 

 Billy was draped over the back of the nearest sofa, his phone in his hands that Bruce suspected might have just taken a picture. 

 "Does tension smell like garlic and mayonnaise?" Barry was standing at the island counter a few feet away, peeking into the bowl of dipping sauce Clark had made. At his side, Hal stuck a finger into the bowl for a taste.

 "Hey!" Clark snapped, letting go of Bruce entirely to storm across the room, "That is for _dinner_! Does this look like the Costco free sample line!?"

 Apparently people fucking with his food before it was ready was Clark's hard limit, Bruce thought mildly as he flopped down onto the couch beside Billy. "I hope Oliver and Hal weren't too much of a bother to the staff when they picked you up," he said quietly.

 "They were the perfect amount of bother," Billy smirked. Bruce surmised that meant that whatever they had done had met Billy's approval, and wondered if he should hand Victor the knife himself or just wait patiently for his own murder. "The receptionist recognized Oliver. I think she liked him," Billy went on, "right up until the point when he said something smelled like an old lady's closet exploded. I think he meant her perfume was bad. She got super pissed after that."

 Yep. He should just find a good knife himself and give it to Victor. It would be more painless if he could pick out a good blade after all. 

 "Where is Oliver?" He asked aloud, concerned that since the blond hadn't made himself verbally known he must be off terrorising the campus at large. Billy flipped himself fully over the back of the couch, making a vague motion behind him as he settled into the cushions at Bruce's side, a game open on his phone. Bruce craned his head around, eyes raking the expanse of student lounge and kitchen until he caught sight of Ollie standing in the entrance.

 He was leaning his body against the open archway, one arm propped up beside head, his other at his side. There was something odd in his gaze as he swept it once over the room as a whole and then settled it on Bruce. It reminded him, just a little, of that night in the belfry. The same softness was there as a small smile formed on his face. But the light in his eyes was different, the sadness absent and replaced by something far brighter that Bruce struggled to put a name to. 

 He'd seen that look before on his face. Back when Ollie was still making the rounds in school archery tournaments. A beaming, sunlit spark after having won, his hand lifted to the crowd. In this situation though, it felt foreign, out of place. This quiet little moment wasn't awash with victory in any way that Bruce could glean. 

 He ruffled Billy's hair as he stood, ignoring the grunt of feigned displeasure as he made his way across the room to where Ollie stood. "Why are you making that face," he whispered in lieu of a greeting.

 Ollie lifted his free arm, tugging Bruce forward until he could peck a kiss into the corner of his mouth. Bruce frowned. "This place is good for you," he said softly, as if that was an explanation. "You've grown," he added. Bruce frowned further, leaning back just enough to put a hand between their foreheads and confirm they were in fact still the same height. To his chagrin this pulled a sharp laugh out of Ollie. "No, babe, not like that," he said breathlessly. 

 "He's calling you fat!" Hal hollered from behind them. 

 Ollie collapsed against him, absolutely howling with laughter now and Bruce stared up at the ceiling, wondering what he'd done to deserve this.

 ~~~***~~~

 At sometime around three in the morning, Bruce concluded with absolute certainty that dorm room beds were not meant to host two adults on one mattress. But much like in their private school days, this didn't seem to bother Ollie in the slightest. Not only was he sound asleep, but he'd also been thrilled when Bruce had announced that the air mattress was a bust (he was starting to suspect that Ollie had tampered with it when he'd ripped open the box, but he had no evidence to back that). 

 Technically, it shouldn't be bothering him either considering how familiar Ollie's weight pressed against his back was, even if it had been a few years. Bruce pushed the side of his face further down into his pillow, squeezing his eyes shut as he desperately wished for sleep. But his thoughts, as usual, toiled onwards at full speed.

 How old had they been the last time? Seventeen? No . . . He hadn't still been sleeping in Ollie's bed then. He would let him fall asleep, and then he would leave. So it must have been sixteen. Bruce exhaled a harsh breath out through his nose. That was probably why he couldn't sleep, his instincts too used to staying awake to slink off to his own bed in the dead of night. 

 Ollie murmured something incomprehensible against his shoulder, fingers tightening where they were fisted in the fabric of the back of Bruce's pajama shirt. He'd always been clingy in his sleep, even long before that night in the belfry. When had it started? After Lex had had them expelled? It must have. Except . . .

 He remembered holding on to Ollie like he was the only port in the storm, the burn marks still red and angry on Ollie's arms, his own knuckles cracked and bruised. They hadn't slept, he recalled, as they'd waited for their guardians to fetch them. But that must have been what started it. That moment had always stood out much more than the ones that had shortly preceded it. Everything else had happened in such a rush. 

 And perhaps, more than anything else, he tried not to think of that unfathomable, untamable fury that had welled up within him when he'd found Lex and his goons holding Ollie down in that room. The glow of a cigarette lighter held over skin had stood out so starkly against the darkness, igniting that long simmering, blinding rage in him. He hadn't stopped hitting Lex until Ollie had bodily pulled him off. 

 He often wondered, when left alone with his own thoughts too long in the dead of night, if he ever would have stopped.

 But he was better than that, wasn't he? The unbridled emotions of a child were not something to be measured against that of an adult. He was grown enough now to reign in his own heat of the moment instincts, to see that dealing out the same punishments that were inflicted on the victims only made him just as bad. A child didn't know those things. A child only knew the hurt that had been dealt to them and theirs, and how to wield that rawness back on their aggressor. He'd told Billy as much. Eleven was too young to realize you had the power to really destroy someone.

 And at the very least Alfred had enrolled him in formal and varied self defense classes after that incident. He probably wouldn't be pleased to learn it had been turned right back into a much more complicated version of beating the shit out of Lex Luthor, but he also never had to find out. 

 Bruce was dragged out of his thoughts by an arm lifting and draping lazily over his waist, fingers splaying out over his middle just below his sternum. "Jus' sleep," Ollie breathed against the back of his neck, slurred just enough that Bruce knew he was still mostly asleep himself. That conclusion was corroborated by a soft snore that shortly followed, and Bruce pressed the heels of his hands to his closed eyes as he fought back something between an impending headache and an outright laugh. 

 His breath hitched in his chest then, not in mirth but in some sort of stuttering, long held in overflow of agony. He hadn't always been like this, had he? A stone sentinel, both the guarded and the guard? 

 He'd started sneaking out of Ollie's bed, the sweat on their bodies not yet dried, when he was seventeen.  

 He'd stopped hugging Alfred goodbye when he was twelve. 

 Neither of these things had stopped him from caring. He knew that, even if he had refused to admit it even to himself. And more importantly, it hadn't stopped either of them from giving a shit about him either. Clearly. 

 And now he had an entire plethora of people around him. People who, as Clark had implied, probably cared for him a great deal. And, god forbid . . . God help him, he cared too.  

 Ollie's arm tightened around him, and Bruce lowered a hand to tangle their fingers together with the sudden desperation of needing to be grounded in the familiar in a room filled with the tangible things given to him by the people he cared for, already steeped in the intangible feelings that came with them.

 This was a weakness. A fucking _weakness_. 

 And yet . . .

 Bruce pressed his face into the crook of his other arm, struggling to drag in each heaving breath as the realization that he wanted it regardless rippled through the very core of him.

 Such a deep, untapped desire, he should have known admitting it even to himself would break him. 

 He clutched Ollie's fingers tighter over his sternum, more terrified by that thought than he had been by anything else in a very, very long time. 

 ~~~***~~~

 Every living thing had needs, Bruce knew. Hell, there was actually a very specific list if them. Food, water, shelter. Those were the necessities, and anything else was simply a want. And only humans wanted for anything.

 Some of those wants he understood too well. Safety, security, stability, those were often things that went hand in hand with the basic needs of life. But anything else?

 Comfort, affection, camaraderie, those were excess, and Bruce Wayne did not want for them.

 But he also didn't realize that he'd been giving them, and in turn receiving them anyways. 

 The most obvious one was Ollie. Though he never asked for anything, he had always been affectionate, and to imply Bruce had never indulged him would be a bald-faced lie. He realized now that while they had never spoken intimately, Ollie had found a way around that through touch. His attention was given in the seemingly casual ways he reached out for others, and as he was doing so at that very moment. His inquiry and concern radiated from the point of contact when he leaned over in his hard-backed stadium seat to press his shoulder to Bruce's, his hand falling to the other man's knee. 

 Bruce knew he looked off. Years and years of mental training to keep his expressions neutral to his thoughts only went so far in the face of confronting his own follies. Lois had pulled him aside already that day to make him go wash his face and run her fingers through his hair and smooth it out. She said he had looked like a wreck, and he'd felt it. But that was hours ago, and he had thought he'd gotten a little better at hiding it. 

 Apparently he was easier to read than he'd thought, but Ollie at least had the courtesy to not say so verbally. Bruce held himself still as Ollie gave his knee a squeeze, a long worn muscle memory. After a heartbeat, Ollie sat back in his seat again, his gaze drawn back outwards by the players parading out onto the field. 

 On Bruce's lap, the weight of Victor's discarded letter jacket from the week prior was settled as a stark reminder of the wants he had already let himself fall victim too, and worse yet was about to do so in a very public manner. It would be so, so easy for Lex to use this against him. For anyone to, really. Bruce Wayne was a figure framed by both spotlight and limelight in equal measure, his weaknesses would always be on full display. Nausea crept through him with every breath, and no matter how much he tried to ease it, his heart was racing. 

 A hand touched his arm, and Bruce's eyes snapped open with the intent of scolding Ollie for getting too handsy before he realized the hesitant touch was coming from his left rather than his right. Bruce blinked and tilted his head down just in time to see Billy quickly withdraw his hand from his sleeve with an apologetic smile. 

 "Sorry. I just had a question. Uhm . . ." He fidgeted a bit in seat and Bruce tracked his eyes as they briefly flickered down to the jacket on his lap and then back up. "Never mind though. You looked like you were thinking about something, sorry to be a bother."

 "You're not a bother, Billy," Bruce said instantly. Something tightened in his chest, squeezing  tight around his insides with mired trepidation. Whatever he said and did next, that would be it. His heart would either be on his sleeve, or it wouldn't. 

 Something brushed against the back of his neck, and Bruce tilted his head to the side to catch sight of Ollie settling an arm with casual ease over the back of his seat, his other hand coming up to swipe calloused fingers through his long hair. The motion shook the sleeve of the _I Love Metropolis_ sweatshirt he was wearing lower on his arm, just enough so to flash the pale imprints of old burn scars hidden beneath it in a way that Bruce knew was entirely intentional. 

 But they were just that, old scars. 

 And Ollie was still sitting next to him ten years on. 

 Bruce swallowed, hands fisting into the letter jacket in his lap for a heartbeat before he turned his attention back to the child on his left. "Stand up," he instructed gently, and Billy hopped up eagerly to his feat as Bruce did the same, the coat unfurling between them in his outstretched arms as he stood. "I think Victor would be alright with you holding onto this during the game." 

 Billy squeaked out an ecstatic, "Yes!" as Bruce artfully swept it around behind him and held it out so Billy could shrug it on over his shoulders. The distant flash of a camera went off, just as Bruce knew it would with all the attention they'd already gotten just from entering the stadium. But he'd made his decision, and as he crouched down to do up the buttons on the front of the jacket, he knew he'd chosen correctly. 

 Tomorrow's gossip columns would show off different things to different people. Some would scoff at a high class socialite slumming it with his college peers. Others would see a businessman staking his claim on potential investments. And the keen few would notice how he'd used the motion of draping a jacket over a boy's shoulders to shield him from sight as the first of the pictures were taken, and read the subtle warning laced within it. 

 Ten years on, and Ollie was still faithfully at his side. 

 Ten years on, and Lex Luthor's nose was still a little crooked in the wrong light. 

 A weakness was only a weakness if you weren't willing to defend it. And Bruce would until his very last breath. Anyone who didn't know that already from first hand experience would find themselves quickly learning it. 

 Something must have shown on his face as he straightened up, a flare of fire in his eyes, because suddenly on Billy's other side he saw Clark sit forward just enough in his seat to purposefully catch Bruce's attention. It was so small, just a simple downward jerk of his chin and a firm smile, but it was enough. Whatever convictions and silent promises had been made in that moment, Bruce knew that they were not just his own to bear.

 At his back, Ollie lifted a casual hand to run his fingers down as much of the line of Bruce's spine as he could reach, an old and familiar gesture of silent reassurance. When Bruce turned to look at him though, taking his seat again as Billy jumped and whooped, his fists in the air, Ollie's attention was already drawn away. "Be right back," he murmured in Bruce's ear before he was up and moving out of their row of seats. 

 It came easier now. The motion of leaning back in his seat and draping one arm over Ollie's empty one, the other pulling Billy back down into the one on his left and, after only a heartbeat of hesitation and another of wild recklessness, letting that arm fall across the boy's shoulders and his fingers Brush against Clark's arm on the other side. This had to be obvious, it had to be public if it was going to work. 

 Lex didn't care about the punishments doled out in the shadows, he never had. His focus had always been on the face everyone could see, it was why he'd been so furious when Bruce had, well, gone right for his face back in school. He couldn't hide a broken nose.

 Lexcorp's underhanded dealings could be dealt with in much the same way, Bruce decided. At the very least, they could definitely be headed off. The disappearance of a wayward foster child, a teenager, a few college students, none of those would make more than local news. The disappearance of those seen being publically favored by a renowned billionaire would quickly stir up a national level panic. 

 "Lex is gonna hate this," Ollie intoned mildly as he sat back down, readily leaning over the armrest between them and further into Bruce's one-armed embrace. "I mean, he's gonna be _really_ mad. He was definitely trying to scope everyone out when Mercy delivered your invitation."

 "Hal talks too much," Bruce chided, rolling his eyes when Hal just stuck his tongue out at him from where he sat to Ollie's right. "He's also too observant for his own good," he added just because he could.

 Hal, oddly enough, seemed to take that as high praise and practically preened under Bruce' admonishing glare. "So glad you noticed, it's gonna come in handy at the gala, I think."

 Bruce blinked, "You're not-"

 "You turned down being my plus one," Ollie smirked, "I had to take someone." To Hal's right, Bruce picked up the almost inaudible sound of Barry swearing fiercely under his breath. "And once Hal filled me in on the deets, I was both on board and eternally grateful."

 "You really talk too much," Bruce reiterated, annoyed when Hal just put his hand to his chest in mock flattery. 

 "Lex will know by tomorrow morning who all is in this squad of yours," Ollie said evenly, "Hal showing up at the party won't increase the attention this stunt today will already bring. Plus, I think it sends a better message for us to show up en masse. It gives Lex more to try and keep track of. Not that Diana and Lois aren't enough of a distraction," he amended.

 On Clark's other side, Lois waved a flippant hand in their direction, barely glancing up from a whispered conversation with Diana. Bruce frowned at the pair of them, suddenly suspicious that all of this had already been in the works without his knowledge. In hindsight, that made today's actions all the more crucial. 

 "Anyways," Ollie went on, "that makes four of us capable of drawing Lex's attention from you and Clark. Doesn't that sound like better odds?"

 Reluctantly, Bruce had to admit that it did. And considerably so at that. "That just leaves Barry here alone though," he said, and something about that just didn't sit right with him for some reason.

 "And me." 

 Bruce blinked, looking up to see Victor leaning against the low wall that separated the field from the fans. Billy yelped as soon as he saw him, all but flying out of his chair to fling himself as far over the wall as he could to wrap his arms around Victor's solid shoulders. Victor took a moment to whisper something Bruce was sure was some sort of reassuring apology into Billy's shoulder before his eyes were once more on Bruce. "Don't count me out," he admonished. "I'm the one who gave you the key, I'm in this just as much as the rest of you."

 Billy looked up from where he was busy burying his face in the front of Victor's jersey. "Victory's good at lots of stuff, you know," he said tartly, as if the very idea that the rest of them didn't need his idol's help was offensive. "His dad has sent him to doctor camp like every summer since he was nine."

 "Doctor camp?" Hal asked, his voice cracking over the last word as if he was trying to hold back a tidal wave of laughter. "You know, I didn't think there was anything nerdier than space camp, but yeah that, uh, that's it."

 Barry huffed in his seat, his arms folding over his chest as he slumped down into it even further than he already was. The burgundy hoodie Hal had picked out for him the day before did little to ease the obvious petulance of his posture in that moment. "Space camp is cool," he muttered. 

 This time Hal did laugh, giving Barry a condescending pat on the cheek that made the blond's ears turn scarlet. "Whatever lets your little nerdy heart sleep at night."

 "The point is," Victor interrupted, "I can stay with Barry. It's not just medical jargon my dad drilled into my head over the years, I'm good with computers too. Barry and I can play safety, be the place to fall back on if something goes wrong."

 "It sounds like we finally have a decent battle plan," Diana said. "What say you, Bruce?"

 He wanted to say no. Every fiber of him screamed at him to reject the entire plan, call the whole thing off right then and there. But he couldn't deny that as things stood a united front was a much stronger foundation than any other plan he could ever come up with. "Alright," he acquiesced. "We'll do it together. All of us."

 "Hell yeah!" Billy whooped, releasing Victor to throw his fists in the air. He paused then, confusion marring his face, "Wait, what are we doing?"

 "Nothing you need to fret about," Ollie soothed, pulling something out from behind his back and handing them to Billy. "Got these for you a minute ago, by the way. Titans colors and everything."

 Billy stared down at the blue and gold pom poms that had been passed to him, clearly torn between resisting the very obvious distraction and actually getting excited. Excitement won out however when Victor loudly proclaimed, "Oliver, you got me my own personal cheerleader? You shouldn't have!"

 Billy's eyes lit up, "Oh shit! You're right! Get those other bitches off the field, I've already got your letter jacket and everything!" He threw his hands into the air again, this time with pom poms held high, completely ignoring Victor's admonishment of, " _Billy! Language!_ " to yell, "Vic-to-ry!" at the absolute top of his lungs. 

 Bruce hid a smile in his palm and took the moment to whisper, "Smooth," to Ollie in aside.

 "Hey, Bruce!" Victor called out over Billy's yells of, "Give me a V!" that the rest of Bruce's friends were humoring wholeheartedly as the marching band on the field began to kick off its pep song to signal the game was about to begin. "Come here a second!"

 Bruce got up from his seat and came down the half-step before the dividing wall, taking note of how the raised platform of the seats left him for once taller than Victor. "I'm sorry if this is a lot of trouble," he found himself saying almost instinctively. "It just seemed like the most surefire way to get Silas to let you play."

 Victor's fingers curled around the lip of the wall, and he used his grip on it to lean idly back to better look Bruce in the eye. "Nah, and before you start self deprecating yourself over the eavesdropping too, neither of those things are what I wanted to talk to you about."

 Bruce blinked, "Then what-"

 "I wanted to thank you."

 He blinked again, rolling Victor's words around in his head and coming up blank on how to reply to them. There was nothing to thank him for, he was fairly certain. He had only been doing what he thought was necessary. 

 "I don't know how you did it," Victor continued, "but you managed to both get my father off my back and show him up simultaneously." He pointed behind Bruce to the chair he'd just vacated. "And it's good to finally see someone sitting in that chair."

 Bruce swallowed, his eyes catching on the engraved placard proclaiming the seat was reserved for Silas Stone. "I'm sorry it had to be me."

 "I'm not," Victor said sharply. "Stop apologizing. You stuck up for me, you came to my game, and you know nothing about football." He laughed, "I used a football metaphor earlier and it flew right over your head, so don't try and say you came just to supervise an 'investment' or whatever." He paused, considering, before he said much softer, "Thank you. You're a good friend."

 Oh.

  _Oh_. 

 Victor didn't elaborate on that, even though his tone had suggested he knew full well what a bizarre thing it had been to say to Bruce Wayne of all people. Instead, he just lifted a hand to announce his departure to the rest of them and jogged out onto the field to the tune of Billy's, and half the stadium's cheers. Bruce took a step back, his calves hitting the base of his seat before he let himself sink slowly back down into it. He sucked in a breath and held it tightly in his lungs, letting it out in short exhales until he felt his heart rate settle in his chest. 

 Ollie's hand was on his knee again, already there before he had even noticed it. And when he looked over Ollie had the same look in his eyes he had had in the kitchen the night before, still entirely unreadable if only because it seemed so misplaced. 

 But they didn't talk, so Bruce couldn't ask. He wouldn't take what hadn't already been offered. 

 "Hal's already planning a real rager of a party," Ollie said near his ear after a moment, "with the assumption Victor's team wins, of course. I said we already had plans, is that okay?"

 They didn't talk, but Ollie had always been handsy. He communicated through touch, his support and affection conveyed in silence. Bruce knew this, and could work with it. "Alright," he conceded, trying his best to sound as if he was relenting to something unpleasant. "I suppose I can make time for you."

 "Is that what the kids call it these days?" Ollie practically purred, not even slightly thrown off by Bruce's tone. 

 ~~~***~~~

 It had been awhile. That was the first thought in Bruce's head as he let Ollie push him backwards onto the cramped dorm mattress. Years, in fact. Bruce had stopped sleeping in Ollie's bed after they fucked when he was seventeen. They had stopped fooling around entirely when they graduated. The decision, for him at least, had been entirely conscious. But it hadn't been fair. 

 Too many years too late, he wondered if he had done something irreparable. How much had it hurt Ollie to pull away like that, to leave his embrace when that had always been the only way they had ever shared anything? The thought curled sharp claws into the spaces between his ribs, and when Ollie clambered up over him, it emboldened him to reach up and tangle his fingers in the other man's hair at the base of his neck. He wasn't entirely surprised when Ollie pounced as soon as that wordless touch, as good as any verbal confession between them, was given, but it still knocked the breath out of him to suddenly have another person's entire weight on his chest.

 As always, Ollie kissed like he was starving. He fanned his fingers out on the sides of Bruce's face, and every other press of his lips was accompanied by a sharp dig of teeth across Bruce's bottom one. Coupled with the warmth of his weight across every inch of him, and the rough roll of his hips, it always left Bruce breathless and drowning. He came up for air with a gasp, tilting his head to the side just enough to break contact. His chest heaved as Ollie turned to nip his way down his neck, each drag of his teeth over thin skin sending a shudder up Bruce's spine. Drawing his hand out, he watched Ollie's hair fell in loose loops over his wrist while he caught his breath, momentarily distracted by the motion until Ollie fumbled with the buttons of his waistcoat. 

 Bruce sat up so that Ollie could pull the waistcoat off of him, his own hands roaming up and under that stupid _I Love Metropolis_ sweatshirt he still had on. "I can't believe you bought this gaudy thing," he scolded as he flexed his fingers, dragging his nails across the skin of Ollie's abdomen and earning a shiver and a sharp exhale against the shell of his ear in response. 

 Their first few times had been a lot like this, too. Teasing, flirting, rough. Bruce was sure that if he thought about it long enough, he'd eventually be able to pinpoint the moment when that changed, and why. But he swept the idea of doing so aside for now, thoroughly preoccupied with running his fingers through Ollie's hair while the blond made quick work of his belt and slacks. "Eager," he chided softly, the word turning into an involuntary groan as Ollie leaned down to catch Bruce's zipper between his teeth. 

 At fifteen in the shadows of a belfry, he had told Ollie it was curiosity that had moved him.

 That was a lie. 

 Ollie sat back on his heels to tug Bruce's pants down and off, tossing them haphazardly over his shoulder. "I am still entirely too dressed," he declared, and Bruce merely lifted an eyebrow in agreement from where he was reclined back in the pillows. "You want to do it, or should I just strip?" 

 Bruce licked his lips and quickly sat up, "Your strip teases are awful. Come here." 

 "Don't you dare ruin my new sweater," Ollie warned, scooting forward on his knees until he straddled Bruce's lap. 

 Bruce smirked, hands already roaming up under the back of the offending garment and his nails pressing crescent marks into Ollie's shoulder blades. When he finally did manage to divest Ollie of the sweater, he purposefully chucked it over the foot of the bed and towards where he thought the trashcan lay. "I can't believe you actually wore these fucking leggings," he commented, tipping Ollie off of him and onto his back. Ollie let out a pleased little huff that cut off into a ragged inhale as Bruce reached between them to run his index finger over the very obvious bulge in the fabric. "These are _obscene_." 

 "They were fine until we got frisky," Ollie whined, his hips bucking up under Bruce's touch. "The sweater went down past my waist. Jesus _Christ_." He batted Bruce's hand away and hooked his thumbs into both his leggings and the underwear underneath, making Bruce sit back on his haunches to watch him shimmy out of them. "Also, I don't want to hear it from you when you were going commando under your best dress pants. That's way more lewd."

 Bruce bit back against the immediate, too truthful retort that bubbled up inside him, his mouth flattening into a thin, tight line as his eyes settled on a blank patch of wall over Ollie's shoulder. 

 Ollie sat up straighter, his brow furrowing for a second before his mouth fell open with a soft, surprised pop. " _Oh_."

 "Don't," Bruce warned.

 There were, of course, a thousand more words unspoken. There always were. 

 Ollie leaned in again, kissing the corner of Bruce's mouth lightly. It felt like an apology, but beneath it he could taste approval. Neither was a new sensation between them by any means. In fact, it was almost a comfort, and in the embrace of it Bruce let himself be pushed gently back down across the mattress again. 

 He skated his fingers down Ollie's back, pressing the pads of them into the tightly coiled muscles of his shoulders and then down in kneading circles towards his pectorals. There was surprisingly little give there, and he could make out tense knots in the chords beneath his touch all along Ollie's right side. Observation overrode instinct for a moment, and through the fog of arousal he perceived that he'd missed something. Strain, born of long disuse followed by a period of exertion and overuse. 

 He should ask. 

 He wouldn't.

 Ollie would have bragged about it if he wanted people to know, after all he had always been so _proud_ of it. Then again, they had never been very good at talking anyways, had they.

 Bruce ran a reverent hand up Ollie's chest as his other found purchase on his back. He followed the lines of muscles to his right arm and down, his eyes fluttering closed as he drew up the old memory of him pulling back on a bowstring and letting go until his touch found the calluses on Ollie's hand. He felt the moment Ollie realized he knew, the shallow hitch of breath when Bruce bit at a still raw mark on his wrist where an errant string must have snapped, and then the moment he relaxed again with a smile tickling against the juncture of Bruce's neck. There was a bitterness to it mixed in there with the hardwon determination, and Bruce knew the decision had to have been recent, hashed out in the face of the disapproval that had always stalked Ollie's heels. 

 He swept his hands back up to center on Ollie's sternum, pushing up until he could get enough space between them to roll over onto his stomach. Ollie made a strangled little sound at this, and Bruce folded his arms under his head across the pillows and raised an eyebrow at him over his shoulder. 

 "You sure?" Ollie asked, and his hands were hesitant on Bruce's hips, his touch as uncertain as his tone. 

 It wasn't as if Bruce didn't understand the significance of the motion, the offer. The truth was he'd spent half the night measuring the weight of it. One could only ask so much of others, could only expect so much honesty, without it being returned in kind. 

 Trust was earned.

 But it had to be given, too.

 Everything was give and take. Hadn't he told Clark as much? 

 And more importantly, he wanted it, too.

 Bruce nodded, just once, into the crook of his arm, shivering as Ollie's fingers trailed over his ass to part his cheeks, thumbs gliding down and pressing against the tight outer ring of muscle between. "Jesus, Bruce," he whispered, and Bruce trembled beneath his touch. He reached up, and Bruce felt his breath rattle through him in a sharp inhale as Ollie's fingers tangled roughly into his short, dark hair, pulling until Bruce was forced to tip his head back. The severity of the action lit fire through his veins, blood pumping hot with a sudden rush of adrenaline. "Last chance," Ollie warned evenly, but there was no real malice in his voice despite the strength in his grip. It was merely a reminder, tinted with the concern of the one person who knew he had never dared turn his back during something as vulnerable as this. 

 "I trust you." 

 The sound Ollie made at that was guttural, as broken as it was harsh, and that was the only warning Bruce got before his head was shoved back down into the pillows, his hips pulled up with a press of fingers strong enough to bruise. He gasped for air, chest heaving as Ollie bit down into the juncture between his neck and shoulder. Ollie's hand came around and fisted around him, wringing a groan out of Bruce with deft ease. "Huh," Ollie mused aloud, the pad of his thumb rolling over the head of Bruce's cock and smearing precum down the underside of the shaft. "Look at this. I knew you liked it rough, but _this_ ," he dug the nails of his other hand into Bruce's hip, and Bruce could feel the blond's eyes boring into him as he couldn't help but grind down against the mattress in response, "this is a whole new level." He released his grip, taking his hand up along the coarse trail of hair towards Bruce's navel and then up further still, scratching at his ribs until his palm flattened over the left side of his chest. "Your heart is _racing_ . And you _like it_."

 There was no question of stopping, it wasn't necessary when Ollie knew that Bruce could and would end this any time he pleased. Besides, as Ollie had already well figured out, there was a certain pleasure to be taken in his body's instinctive fear. 

 Bruce dug a hand under his pillows, emerging with a bottle clasped tight between his fingers that he passed over into Ollie's waiting one. It was all cut and dry from there, no need to ask questions they already knew the answers to, no reason to hesitate when they could ascertain everything through the familiarity of one another. They each knew what the other wanted, and that was more than enough.

 Bruce held his breath as Ollie lined himself up, letting it out slowly as he pushed inside inch by agonizing inch. It was, as always, too much and never enough. He could feel Ollie shaking over him, the vibration rippling between their bodies where they were pressed together chest to back, waiting. Patient fingers worked their way across the front of his thighs, his hips, bruising, teasing, until they wrapped around Bruce's weeping erection and squeezed. 

 It was too much, the added adrenaline pushing Bruce over the edge with unexpected violence. His back bowed, a hoarse shout dragging every last bit of air out of his lungs as he came in thick spurts across the sheets. "Fuck," he hissed out the moment he had enough breath in him to do so. " _Fuck_."

 "That was the intention," Ollie choked out into the crook of his neck. He was shuddering himself, and Bruce could feel the uneven, involuntary twitch of his hips as he struggled to hold still through Bruce's clenching aftershocks. He gave Bruce's softening cock a tentative stroke, forcing an almost pained groan of him in the process. There was only a second of hesitation before he repeated the motion, again and again until Bruce's cock was once more straining and agonizingly hard in his hand. "I knew you had it in you," he praised, pulling away in favor of taking Bruce's wrists between his thumb and forefinger and pinning them together across the pillows just above his head. Tight enough to hold in place, weak enough to break if Bruce so chose. 

 The white hot spike of adrenaline licked through Bruce again, drawing out a string of incomprehensible curses into the crook of his arm, his hips bucking back in desperation. But Ollie didn't move. And when he dared to crack open an eye to glance at him over his shoulder, he was startled by the wide-eyed, barely contained elation he caught in the other man's gaze. It didn't last, and before Bruce could blink Ollie's expression had shifted into something positively wicked, his lips quirking into a smirk. 

 He drew out slowly, his other hand falling from Bruce's hip to brace against the mattress. And when he pushed back in, it was with that same, frustrating slowness, grinding down as if he had all the time in the world. Bruce clenched his teeth, biting back on his words as Ollie did it again, purposefully slow, applying just enough pressure to give the barest taste of what Bruce was aching for. 

 Bruce let himself slump fully down against the mattress, his neglected cock desperate for friction. But before he could get anywhere, Ollie had released his wrists to use both hands to drag him back up to his knees, just as quickly pinning him down again in the next instant. Teeth pressed against the soft skin of his neck, a warning. "I don't think you need to do that," Ollie murmured, nipping, licking, and Bruce felt himself shaking his head before he could even register the answer in his mind. But it wasn't enough. It was still too slow, not enough, and Ollie knew that.

 "I could ruin you," Ollie said through his teeth. "Leave you wrecked. What do you think?"

 Bruce clamped his mouth shut, exhaling shakily through his nose as Ollie pushed back into him with that same frustrating slowness. This time, he hit just the right angle though, and Bruce gasped as stars sparked behind his eyes. "Ollie," he choked out, "Ollie, _please_."

 "Knew you had it in you, babe," Ollie practically purred, drawing out once more before snapping his hips and slamming back in with a brutal force that drove a grateful sob out of Bruce. He quickly bit down into the pillow to stifle another as Ollie set a harsh, unrelenting pace. 

 There would be marks tomorrow, bites and bruises that lingered for the weekend until they purpled and faded with the passage of time. Bruce relished in the idea of them, a reminder of a connection he had somehow not let burn out completely. 

 Ollie couldn't last long, Bruce knew, not with how much time he'd spent teasing and toying, and Bruce could feel him racing towards the precipice with each ragged breath against the back of his neck. He wasn't far off himself either, the ache of already having come more of an encouragement than a hindernance with every vicious press of Ollie's cock inside him, every blinding roll of pleasure against his prostate. 

 "You're so good," Ollie moaned, teeth dragging over the already abused skin of Bruce's neck as he spoke, "so good for me, Bruce. Missed this," he admitted, almost under his breath, barely audible. "Missed _you_."

 And that was enough, that quiet confession that he didn't know he needed tipping Bruce right over the edge again. His whole body pulsed with it, every word echoing white hot through his nerves. He cried out, twisting his wrists in Ollie's grip until he could fist his fingers into the folds of the pillows for a semblance of purchase. Ollie made a strangled sounding noise and released him in favor of grabbing Bruce's hips with both hands. Once, twice, he thrust in again, hard enough for Bruce to bite down on a whine at the immense overstimulation, before he hilted himself fully, his head dropping down to press against the space between Bruce's shoulder blades as he came inside him, his breaths heavy and halting across Bruce's spine.

 They never lingered long in any sort of afterglow, the pleasure of being full and spilled into always fading into mild disgust at being sticky and sore for Bruce. But still, Ollie was Ollie, and when he pulled out he took the time to roll Bruce over, peppering his face with kisses despite all protests. 

 "Shower first," Bruce objected, pushing him away with clearly feigned distaste while Ollie just laughed at him. "I feel disgusting and I'm not sleeping on these sheets."

 "I mean, I told you I would ruin you," Ollie reminded lightly, barking out another laugh when Bruce just narrowed his eyes at him. 

 One shower (which may or may not have taken another forty minutes), and a lesson in teaching Ollie how to make a bed later, they sat on the bed with their backs to the wall, the moonlight drifting in through the window in long streaks. It was without question an ending, though there was solace in the knowledge that this time it was done with the intent of closure.  

 Ollie pulled a knee up towards his body, propping his arm across it as he turned to cast Bruce a wry, almost self-deprecating grin. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

 Out of character, Bruce thought with a hint of trepidation, but he swallowed past it to nod. 

 "Just this once, can you tell me something true?"

 "I've never outright lied to you," Bruce said immediately, and Ollie scoffed.

 "No, not like that." He leaned over tapping a single finger against the left side of Bruce's chest. "Tell me something _true_."

 Bruce stared at him. It was of course hypocritical of him to expect so much transparency, so much honesty from others while so rarely offering it himself. 

 "I only work in equivalent exchange," he said cryptically, curiosity of his own winning out over all else. 

 Ollie smiled, "One true thing from me? Alright, that's fair I guess." He sat back, letting his head thunk against the wall and his eyes close as he mulled it over. When he opened them again, his gaze fixed on the ceiling for a heartbeat, that same, utterly unreadable look he'd been casting Bruce since he'd arrived lingering in his features. "Don't take this as me being patronizing or something," Ollie began, "because I'm not. This is a genuine emotion. But . . . I am so, _so_ proud of you."

 Bruce's eyebrows furrowed, but before he could protest, Ollie had slapped a knowing hand over his open mouth. 

 "Let me finish, asshole. Ever since we got out of school you have buried yourself in work and socialite nonsense. I wasn't going to stop you, but it . . . Sucked. As someone who constantly puts on a public face to appease people, I know how quickly you can lose yourself in a facade." Across where it was stretched out over his knee, the muscles in his right arm flexed, his index and middle fingers curling in just slightly towards his palm in what Bruce guessed was a more unconscious action than anything. "And I always thought you were meant for something, well . . . More."

  _More_.

 It was such a vague thing to say, so undefined and broad in its spectrum that most people would be entirely thrown off by it.

 Except . . .

 Hadn't he already thought as much himself? If he had the right skills, the right allies, the right assets . . .

 "Diana said that, too," he found himself saying, tracking out of the corners of his eyes the way Ollie turned his head through the darkness to look at him. "She said I 'have the potential to be great.'" 

 "Yeah?" It wasn't so much as a question as it was an agreement, and when Bruce dared to look, Ollie's eyes were shining with that same resolute spark of pride he had refused to recognize before. "That's fantastic, and that's exactly what I'm talking about. This place," he gestured around the room, at Hal's bed made up with gifted sheets, Barry's borrowed book left open on the desk, Diana's bookmark shuffled into the notes on the Lexcorp flash drive, Lois's articles highlighted pinned to the wall, a minifridge filled with leftover artichokes, a phone that held pictures of a football game, "these _people_ , they're good for you. And I'm glad. After everything, I was terrified you would never . . ." He clapped his hands together then, apparently abruptly done with whatever road that bit of sentimentality had been about to go down. "Right! Your turn!"

 The words, so long unsaid that the feeling behind them had burned down and dimmed into something else years ago, stuck in Bruce's throat for a heartbeat or two. It was probably too late to say them now, too belated for them to hold the same meaning they would have when he should have said them at sixteen. The weight of them would fall flat in the past tense, he was sure of it, even if it saying them would still take every ounce of his strength. The phrase better late than never stuck out starkly in his mind, and he knew it was true. If he never said them, even in hindsight, if Ollie _never_ knew, he would regret it. 

 "I . . . Loved you. When we were kids, in school. It wasn't curiosity. I loved you."

 He couldn't meet Ollie's eyes, fixing his own gaze on the mattress. He didn't want to know what the look on his face would be.

 The silence that followed that confession shattered with a choked snort, and a sharp, barely bit back laugh.

 Despite himself, Bruce looked, disbelieving as he saw Ollie quickly turn his head away with a hand covering his mouth in a desperate attempt to smother another giggle. He scowled, his stomach sinking, "I'm never telling you anything personal ever again," he said with bitter vehemence, turning away to climb off the bed only for Ollie to tackle him back down onto the mattress.

 "No! No no no no no," Ollie said through his laughter, Bruce's face held gingerly between his hands, their noses brushing. "No, I'm sorry. I'm not laughing at you. I'm sorry. It's just . . . You idiot, I knew that already."

 Bruce blinked up at him, "What?"

 "I won't pretend it didn't, uhm, sting when you stopped sleeping in my bed, but I wasn't stupid. I knew why you did it, Bruce. I always knew. You cared, and that scared the hell out of you."

 Sitting up, Bruce pushed at Ollie until he was sitting across his thighs. "You knew," he repeated, deadpan.

 "I know _you_ ," Ollie clarified, and something in those words rang with a more recent familiarity, intimacy. "Of course I knew. Besides," he smacked a hand to his own chest, puffed with self inflated ego, "I took a special sort of pride in knowing I was Bruce Wayne's first love."

 It seemed unfair to have told Ollie something true, only for him to have already known it. And on top of that, admitting what he was about to would throw Ollie off for weeks, and that would be worth it in and of itself. 

 "Second," Bruce said casually.

 Ollie's mouth snapped shut mid bluster. "Wha-"

 "You were my _second_ love," Bruce corrected.

 ". . . WHAT!?"

 ~~~***~~~

  _Ten years ago two boys spread out on unrolled sleeping bags across dry, midwestern grass. Above them the night sky was lit with patchwork whorls of starlight, endless in its expanse until it dipped away behind the horizon and seemed to touch the earth._

  _"Gosh, beautiful night, huh?" the boy said, his bright blue eyes filled with as many specks of light as the sky._

  _Bruce didn't answer, his thoughts preoccupied with all the little observations of the day behind them. In the grass, his wandering fingers found a stick, thick and sturdy, and wrapped around it as he finalized the decision in his mind. With calculated misdirection, he tilted his head towards the boy with an easy smile, and whipped his arm around the bring the stick crashing down over his companions head._

  _The boy sputtered, flinching back with false agony as the stick snapped cleanly over him. "Hey! What's the big idea!" He lifted a hand to his head, rubbing at the spot where the stick had hit him, but no welt could be seen between his fingers. The skin was entirely unblemished. Bruce took in the way his shoulders hunched once he noticed his companion staring, an action that could be read as an instinctual cowering after being hurt, but to Bruce's keen eyes looked much more defensive. The fear in the boy's eyes was already too deep seated to be just from getting knocked over the head._

  _"You're stronger than you let on," Bruce remarked lightly, watching the wariness in the other boy's eyes and posture increase with those words. "Stronger than_ **_anybody_** _," he continued. "Why do you hide it?"_

  _The boy stared at him, the hand covering the place where a bruise would never form lowering to slide down over his face and then drop to his side, skittishness displaced in favor of the need to tell_ **_someone_** _. "I don't know," he whispered, so low and soft that Bruce had to move closer to hear him. "Sometimes, I feel like I don't really belong here. That if people knew the real me, they'd be scared of me."_

  _"That sounds pretty awesome," Bruce grinned, and the boy barked out a swift, startled laugh._

  _"I guess if you're the sort of person who just got kicked out of a school for beating the stuffing out of someone," the boy said airily, ducking when Bruce made as if to swat at him._

  _"That was justice," Bruce retorted._

  _"So you say," the other boy goaded._

  _They fell into companionable stillness, and Bruce tipped his head up until he was forced to topple over backwards onto his sleeping bag, his eyes fixed on the stars, so much brighter here than they could ever shine in Gotham. "So, you don't feel like you belong here, huh?"_

  _The boy lay down beside him, hands folded behind his head. "Don't say it like_ **_that_** _," he protested hotly, "you make it sound like I'm some sort of space alien."_

  _"What if you are," Bruce teased._

  _"Uh," he gestured sarcastically between them, "unless you're_ _an alien too, I'm pretty sure I'm a human."_

  _"_ ** _The Thing_ ** _looked human," Bruce countered, "what if this is just your human disguise."_

  _"Bruce," the boy whined, "_ ** _no_** _."_

  _"Spock looked human too," Bruce added._

  _"_ ** _Bruce_** _," the boy said, his hands coming up to cover his face, hot with embarrassment._

  _"Fine, fine," Bruce relented, "I was just messing with you. You're obviously human, anyways, despite everything else."_

  _The boy's brow furrowed, and after a moment of thought, he rolled over onto his stomach and propped himself up on his elbows. "Why?" It was barely even a question, the contrite demand for an answer in his tone drowning it out._

  _"What do you mean 'why?'" Bruce countered, curious himself._

  _The boy frowned down at his hands, flexing his fingers into his palms and out again. "I don't know, I just . . . You seem so sure. And I'm . ._ _. Not . . ."_

  _"You taught me baseball," Bruce said._

  _He felt more than saw the boy's head snap up in his direction, the confusion almost palpable in the air. "Huh?"_

  _"Or tried to," Bruce amended. "And then you let me throw you to the ground even though you could have easily stopped me." He turned onto his side, making sure the other boy met his eyes before he spoke again. "I don't think an alien would . . . Would care that much. So that means you have to be human."_

  _The boy stared at him, his mouth open just the barest breath. "Oh."_

  _"But the Terminator learned to care about people in the second movie," Bruce added, just because he could, "so I'm still undecided about whether or not you're a robot."_

_This time the burst of laughter that escaped the boy was more genuine, the bitterness and fear from earlier wiped clean. "What? No, come on. Robots don't age!"_

  _"I have seen no proof of aging," Bruce pointed out wickedly, "I've only known you a day."_

  _"There are photos of me as a baby in the house! My mom made Alfred look at half the album!" the boy protested._

  _"Photoshop," Bruce smirked._

  _"Oh my_ **_god_ ** _."_

  _Bruce snorted, hiding his own laughter in his hand as he looked back up at the stars. If he closed his eyes, they would go out in one fell swoop, as black as the sky back home. He did so, breathing in the cool night air in an effort to banish the thought of what the dawn would bring, skyscrapers and dark alleyways replacing country landscapes and an entire cosmos stretching out seemingly just beyond his fingertips. There was a rustle of fabric, the slide of weight across the slick material of the sleeping bags, and Bruce opened his eyes as the other boy hesitantly touched his arm. "Hmm?"_

  _"Hey, uhm . . ." The boy said, stalling with his lower lip tugged up nervously between his teeth. "This is gonna sound super weird-"_

  _"You already told me you're a robot-alien," Bruce interrupted, "I will be_ **_shocked_ ** _if you can say something weirder."_

  _The boy stuck his tongue out at him in retaliation. "Shut up. I was going to ask if you had ever, uhm . . ." He ducked his head, the flush on his cheeks visible even by starlight, "if you had ever kissed anyone."_

  _"I'm eleven," Bruce deadpanned._

  _The boy rolled back over and sat up fully in order to throw his hands up in the air, "That doesn't answer the question!"_

  _"Have you?" Bruce countered._

  _His arms folding over his chest, the boy muttered a dull, "No."_

  _Bruce stayed laying down, considering this. He wasn't an idiot, he knew full well what the other boy was asking, and it was not as if he wasn't curious himself. Though, perhaps something stronger than simple curiosity stirred him to say, "Me neither," and continue the conversation before it could get swallowed entirely by silence._

  _"Oh," the boy whispered. "Uh . . . Did you, uhm, w-want to?"_

  _Sitting up, Bruce propped himself back on his arms, fingers splaying out across the sleeping bags. He tilted his head to the side, ever cocky even in waters he had yet to learn to traverse. When the boy just stared at him, flustered, he smirked. "Well?"_

  _"O-oh!" the boy sputtered, "you want me to- okay." He reached out, his fingers too warm as they came to rest gently against Bruce's cheek. "Everyone in the movies closes their eyes," he said, leaning in until his breath puffed out in staggered bursts against Bruce's nose._

  _"This isn't the movies."_

  _The boy shrugged, apparently content with that misdirection, and closed the gap as his own eyes fluttered shut._

  _It wasn't like the movies. There was nothing climactic or earth shattering about it. The press of their lips together was just that, and Bruce barely felt it over the rabbit-rapid thudding of his own heart._

  _Pulling back, the boy let out a contemplative hum. "Weird," he decided after a pause. Bruce nodded, swiping his tongue across his lips. "Maybe it's an adult thing?" the boy wondered aloud._

  _"Scientific method dictates we should conduct multiple tests, though," Bruce found himself saying. "Also, maybe you're just bad at it."_

  _"I am not-"_

  _He cut the boy off by leaning in again, this time focusing on the sensation, his hand falling instinctively to the back of his partner's neck and his eyes closing. His heart hadn't stopped pounding, and the blood roared in his ears with every beat._

  _The stars were distant lights._

  _The earth turned beneath them._

  _The boy pulled away first with a shaky exhale, his eyes blown wide and a startled, soundless, "_ **_Oh_** _," on his lips._

  _Bruce opened his eyes, chest heaving in new air, and played a smirk across his face. "Told you you sucked."_

  _Scowling, the boy whose name he couldn't remember threw a handful of grass at him, sending them both into a fit of laughter that rang out through a small town Bruce wouldn't recall._  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws out forshadowing*
> 
> *throws out character growth*
> 
> *throws out the two longest SuperBat scenes yet*
> 
> *finally shows off the one comic canon scene this entire fic is built off of*
> 
> *THROWS OUT SUB-BOTTOM BRUCE*
> 
> Anyways, thank you so very much to everyone who waited patiently for this monster of a chapter. 
> 
> In case you aren't familiar with it, the final scene shown in flashback italics is partially taken from the infamous "When Clark Met Bruce" scene in the comics. If you have somehow never seen this absolute gold, [here's a link](https://funnyjunk.com/When+clark+met+bruce/funny-pictures/5627230/)  
> I've been heavily alluding to this scene since chapter one, so it's a relief to finally reveal the majority of it as a full flashback. 
> 
> There will be another fairly long (non comic canon) flashback starting off next chapter, too, which is FINALLY Lois's first POV chapter. There will be JOURNALISM, by which I mean Lois's idea of journalism, aka sneaking around where she is not supposed to be and getting into trouble. I'm excited. 
> 
> In other notes, I really wanted to convey a pretty strong dichotomy between how Bruce thought of Ollie and how he spoke of him and how that related to his true feelings. This was (hopefully) shown mostly through the fact that he almost always referred to Ollie as Oliver in front of other people, and I hope that came across alright. In case it didn't though, here's the explanation I guess?
> 
> Chapter song this time is "Can We Pretend" by P!nk, and I've actually gone and compiled all the title songs so far together [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL0nSS-_5CNzieZEjzJRnNLfhq1A1a1mL1)  
> And will add to it as chapters are posted because some of the songs in my inspiration playlist for this fic are huge fucking spoilers.
> 
> Anyways, thanks again for your patience. Comments are always appreciated and get me through the worst of my writers block <3


End file.
